Lost Time
by Viking Princess
Summary: Ever wondered what happened to Amon during his disappearance in the middle of the series? Well wonder no longer, the story is here! It lives! CH 11, finally!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own WHR, Bandai does. All quoted materials in the first paragraphs are property of Bandai. I intend this to be a multi-chaptered story, but since I'm usually a one-shot act I am a bit nervous. Hope you like it!

**Chapter 1: Captured**

_Floodlights washed over the courtyard, making the fading sunlight seem like full dark and rendering Amon's closed lids translucent. Men were milling around him, seemingly oblivious to him bleeding out at their feet, taking care only to avoid getting any on their expensive shoes._

"Contact Squad 2 and tell them the building is completely secured."

"We'll secure the server's hard drive right away."

"Hurry up and get switched over to back up power."

_Meaningless babble in one male voice after another, inane and irritating under regular circumstances, now became the thread that held him to the present moment and kept him from slipping away, either to death or unconsciousness he didn't know._

"We've already seized the samples."

"The database is sure to have a protection program that will automatically destroy its contents."

"Please don't touch it until we get there."

_Neither was preferable at the moment, despite the roaring pain emanating heat and blood from several points in his body. He had to listen, had to understand what they were saying. Had it worked? Had she gotten away?_

"The building's system is now running in a standalone state."

"I'd like to continue with the operation."

_Suddenly his eyes popped open, made blind by the piercing light and pain. The haze had cleared long enough for him to make sense of the conversation around him._

"Please override the security system password."

"I'll ask, but for now, good work."

_They weren't looking for Robin._

"Thank you for all your hard work. I'm glad none of your team got hurt."

"Thank you sir."

_This wasn't a hunt._

_His eyes stayed open, but his consciousness slipped away. Was he dying? He couldn't even muster up a tinge of fear for the possibility of death. Knowing that she was for the moment safe, Amon allowed himself the luxury of passing out and escaping the pain that was steadily escalating to a shrill shriek inside his head._

* * *

He had opened his eyes since then, he knew he had, but the memory of that moment played so clearly in his mind that it seemed to force out all others, making it seem as though no time had passed between that moment and the present. Come to think of it, Amon could not seem to accurately reckon the time that had passed between then and now, and he frowned with concentration. Blurry fragments of images darted across his line of internal vision, but they made no sense or gave any indication of location or time passing. If only his limbs weren't so heavy, if only his sleep sanded eyes would open _now_…

A creeping line of adrenaline began to work its way into his bloodstream. His body seemed unable to obey his mental commands, from moving his hand to licking his exceedingly dry lips with his equally parched tongue, which seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth.

There was only one explanation Amon's calculating mind could figure under the foggy circumstances – he was or had been drugged. Unable to determine much of anything else with his eyes closed, he sought to check in with his various senses to take stock and possibly answer some more questions. For starters, he was lying flat on his back on something that was certainly soft enough to be a bed, and his skin reported that beyond the woven blanket that had been tucked up to his shoulders, the air was cool but not cold. There was very little sound, but a slight whooshing was heard that could indicate ventilation or air conditioning. Every so often, measured and metered, came an electronic beep from somewhere off to his right. The air was dry, painfully dry, and smelled of antiseptic perhaps, or merely the absence of other smells which suggests excessive cleanliness. His closed lids were dark, giving the impression that the room too was dark.

And he most certainly wasn't alone. If pressed, he couldn't say with certainty that it was breath he heard, or maybe the faintest scrape of a shoe on hard flooring, or perhaps just the sense that another person was in close proximity. But the realization and certainty of another person sharing this space finally enabled Amon to find the necessary connection between his brain and his eye lids. It took several blinks before his vision stopped swirling and coalesced into the hard lines of waking reality, but the slightest twitch to look right or left smeared the edges and made a vapor trail appear, signaling a delay occurring between what he saw and when he saw it. The effect made his very empty stomach threaten to heave, but he schooled himself and focused on the wall directly before him. His body stretched out the length of the bed, a hospital bed with metal rails on each side. The wall subject to his concentration was wholly unremarkable save for the crucifix that was placed exactly center, directly in his line of sight as if to say, 'And you think _you_ are suffering?'

His instinct told him the person was several feet away and to his left. Rather than risk vomiting from the sliding nature of his vision, he instead slowly turned his entire head toward the door, where he was rewarded for his effort by the view of a man sitting in a burgundy cushioned but otherwise very utilitarian chair.

What had been cautious apprehension was now stoking itself steadily toward alarm. His body seemed wholly disconnected from his brain and was dragging him like lead weight back toward the black chasm of drug induced sleep. Yet the sight of this gaunt, gray haired man wearing the black suit and white collar of a priest, sitting eerily still near his bedside was putting his instincts on high alert. Amon was unsure what was more spooky – that the man seemed not to move even with the breaths he must certainly take, or that no reaction whatsoever had occurred either in eyes or features to indicate he was interested in Amon's waking or movement. Eyes that seemed nearly colorless in the dim near darkness of the room continued to stare directly into Amon's as though he was looking at a grocery list.

Amon forced his cracked lips apart, sought for the breath that would force words over his swollen tongue, but when he attempted to ask 'Who are you?' only a strangled puff of air managed its way out. Frustration surged and Amon blinked hard before focusing on the priest again. And then the door to the small room opened, washing light over the bed and overwhelming Amon's befuddled eyesight. Blinded and nauseous, he fought to keep his vision clear enough to see a silhouette appear in the light from the hall, which entered the room with another form appearing in the doorway as well. The first form approached the bed and leaned in, one hand reaching for the pulse in Amon's deadened wrist and the other grasping him firmly by the chin to have a better look at his face. Amon wanted to wrench away, wanted to spring from the bed and sprint out the open door, but was forced to accept the touch from the form in the white coat.

The doctor, or so Amon assumed he was, folded down the thin sheet and blanket covering Amon and he could feel probing fingers exploring his torso, finding areas which, when pressed, produced electric nerve jolts down his spine which made his jaw clench and ache.

"Everything is well," he heard the doctor pronounce in smooth Italian a moment before he saw the man's lips move, further escalating the drug induced nausea, making his brain beg him to close his eyes. Amon firmly refused the inclination, unwilling to make himself blind to the happenings around his bed. The doctor turned to the priest who had remained seated in his hospital issue chair. "Shall I dose him again?" Amon saw no response from the seated man except that his intense and empty gaze traveled from Amon to the doctor standing next to him. After a moment of this eerie scrutiny the doctor appeared to have his answer, as he waved the nurse from the doorway to the IV stand which stood on the opposite side of Amon's bed.

She walked quickly across the room, blurring his muddied vision further, producing a syringe and reaching for the clear tube that ran from the bag of fluid to the needle in his right hand. He opened his mouth to protest but nothing issued forth, leaving him to move his mouth in a silent but incoherent plea. "Please," he wanted to shout, "get away from me, don't drug me again, why are you keeping me here and where the hell am I anyway?" The most that came of his attempt was a choked groan as the nurse inserted the needle into the IV port and pushed the plunger home. He could feel this new fluid entering his bloodstream with the saline, cold and burning, tracing his vein up his arm, into his neck, immobilizing his face and then trickling icy fingers into his chest. The light was dimming, his eyes were swimming, drooping. A deep breath… another…and the world disappeared.


	2. Dreams and Reality

**Chapter 2: Dreams and Reality**

_He was walking down a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the little remaining daylight filtering in from the windows of the rooms he passed. All was deserted and quiet, yet all his senses sought out a single sound, evidence of a presence he knew to be there. Yet he couldn't name whom it was he was searching for. He gave cursory glances into the rooms as he passed, completely empty, as he somehow knew they would be. The light was failing, and he must find her soon. Her. Yes, it was a she. His steps made no sound as he passed down the hallway, which stretched on and on, yet the end was near. If he could reach the end of the hallway he could find her. He fought time, fought the air, and reached out for the silver knob to the battered old door. Turned, pushed the door inward, and stepped inside._

_A child's play room is what stood before him. The sunset cast a glow on the rocking horse, dollhouse, and red wagon cast randomly about the multicolored carpet as the corners collected dark that had begun to creep inward toward the center of the room where she sat. She glowed, cast in gold from the remaining rays of sun through unclean glass, her voluminous black skirt billowed around her. She sat with her back to him inside a ring of wooden blocks, reaching out a thin ivory hand to replace one of the ring with another block from the collection scattered about her. She held the block and turned it over in her curious fingers. _

_Amon circled her slowly, warily, as though approaching a wild animal, cautiously pacing the outside of her makeshift circle till he could see her profile. She set down the block she had been examining and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "I knew you would come," she breathed, slowly turning her head till their eyes met. "I had faith."_

"_I almost didn't make it," he admitted without knowing why._

_Robin nodded as though this answer were perfectly expected. "I know." She gave her attention again to the blocks clustered in the folds of her skirt, rifling through them, rolling them over until she found the one she sought. At her gesture he finished his circumnavigation and knelt facing her. She cupped the chosen block in her hand, and from this angle he could see these were children's blocks, the painted kind with letters on each side. Except these letters were none he had seen before, at least none that he understood. _

_She sensed his questioning glance and extended her hand toward him. "This one is me," she whispered, turning it to reveal the same character resembling the letter H carved and red painted on each side. "But you knew that already."_

"_I did?"_

_The corners of her mouth curled in the beginning of a smile. "Yes, you just don't remember knowing." Then she frowned. "At least, I thought that was me. He told me so, trained me to it. But then I learned differently."_

_Amon felt as though his head was full of wool, scratchy and stifling. The shadows were taking on a sharper edge, growing deeper, and were etching and filling the hollows of Robin's face. She looked sorrowful as she considered the rune block in her hand. "Who is he?" Amon questioned the girl before him._

_Robin frowned harder at the block. "The only man who knows. I don't know what he knows. I can't make sense of all of this," she gestured widely at the blocks encircling her, "not on my own." Then she looked up at Amon with those amazing emerald eyes. Her countenance had cleared. "I know somebody else who can, though." _

_At this she reached with her free hand and collected another block, holding it close to her chest for a moment. Then she took the block emblazoned with the H symbol and set it on the ground between and Amon and herself, placing the new block, a rune resembling F __on top of it. This accomplished, Robin looked at Amon expectantly. He returned her gaze with undisguised bewilderment._

"_He doesn't understand," came a worn female voice, startling Amon to his feet with gun drawn in one smooth movement. An ancient woman sat hunched in a wheelchair inside Robin's circle, behind and to the left of the girl. It took a long moment before he recognized her, and he lowered his gun slowly._

"_Methuselah," he hissed, every nerve at the ready should she even twitch in Robin's direction. It was a few seconds before the reasonable voice in Amon's head reminded him that Methuselah was dead, that Robin herself had killed her with the fire Craft. Yet here she sat, real as the black clad girl at her feet. Robin, however, appeared completely unshaken at the old woman's sudden appearance, not even glancing over her shoulder as she answered the crone's statement. "I wish he could see."_

"_And so he will," intoned Methuselah, fixing her hawk-like stare on Amon, "with time."_

_Amon's temper was rising, ignorance being a state of mind he had considerably little patience for. "What will I see?"_

_Both girl and crone looked at him with eyes quickly filling full of shadow. "It may be, however," Methuselah said slowly without looking away, "that he is more their pet than you suppose little one. He may not be what we think."_

_Robin finally looked at the woman behind her, rising up on her knees as though a supplicant. "No, I know that's not true. He can see, I know he can. Just time, that's all he needs. And faith."_

"_That word again," Methuselah smiled at Robin. "Everyone can say it. Not everyone has it. No, not everyone has faith. Some people refuse it." And here her eyes slid back to Amon._

_He bristled at what he perceived to be an implied insult or shortcoming. "I have faith in what it right."_

_His temper was not soothed when the old woman smirked. "And how do you know what is right? Do you _know_, or were you told? Can you see or do you follow blindly?"_

_Amon shook his head angrily. "I don't understand what you're talking about."_

"_No, you don't," came the old woman's reply with laughter in her voice. Robin had sunk back to the floor and was rifling earnestly through her blocks, distracting Amon's attention. Methuselah watched her with interest, then looked at Amon pointedly, then back to Robin. Amon was fumbling about in his muddled head for an explanation to the old hag about what faith _really_ was, but was spared further consideration when Robin turned to Methuselah beseechingly. _

"_Please," she begged quietly, "please tell me which one it is. Show me." A pause stretched out meaningfully as the women eyed each other. "I can help him," Robin continued, "then he'll understand. It will be all right then. Won't you tell me which it is?"_

_Just when it seemed she wouldn't answer, Methuselah sighed and nodded. "You truly are chosen," was her cryptic conclusion, though she smiled when she said it. Using her stick, she rolled the blocks to and fro, then rapped one sharply. "This one." The block in question was just behind Robin and she turned to pounce on it eagerly._

_But when she turned Methuselah was gone and Amon was looking at Dojima. Amon took a startled step back. "What the hell is going on?"_

_Dojima had the block in her cupped hands, hiding it within. "What do you think is going on?" Came the defensive reply._

_Amon stepped back to the border of the block ring, and Dojima stood to face him. "Where is Robin?" Amon asked, trying to squelch the alarm rising in his chest. "What did you do with her?"_

"_You could answer that question better than me," Dojima replied infuriatingly, still hiding the block, casting about the room with her eyes as though expecting to be overheard. _

"_And what is that supposed to mean?" _

"_I had nothing to do with her. More than you can say for yourself." The young blond was trying to find a pocket in her tight fitting ensemble that would hold the wooden block, but every one proved too small. "Damn it," she hissed, looking more frantically around the room._

"_She was right here and then she was gone!" Amon admonished loudly, his abused patience all but spent. _

"_Yes I know that," she replied with exasperation, "but we can't do anything about that now. It's in their hands."_

"_Their hands? Who are you talking about?" Dojima's paranoia was starting to affect Amon, his eyes tried to pierce the darkness in the corners, looked warily toward the door to the empty hallway. _

"_You know who," Dojima pointedly proclaimed, "you're one of them after all." Then she looked at the wooden block in her hand. "Or maybe not. You are, aren't you?" Her eyes registered doubt and a twinge of fear._

_Amon growled in anguished frustration, wishing to understand even two words spoken together. Dojma looked at him from under her eyelashes. "You know, if they get a hold of this," she said, indicating the concealed block, "you're history."_

"_God damn it!" Amon shouted, "What is it? Why can't anyone tell me what's happening?"_

_But before she could answer, a sound was heard from the hallway. "They're here," she warned as she turned to it, reaching for her gun, and a hand grasped Amon's shoulder from behind. _

_He whirled around and came nose to nose with Master, whose large brown eyes seared into his own. He whispered one word. "Run."_

_Amon turned to do just that and stopped short. Zaizen stood in the center of the circle, a block balanced on his open palm. Fear trickled down Amon's throat and froze his stomach, and his feet now felt glued to the floor. _

"_One, just one," Zaizen said conversationally, his face betraying no emotion. "Just like the others," with an indication to the wooden cubes at his feet, "yet singular in its own fashion. Each different, but serving the same purpose. Interchangeable." There was a pause, and Zaizen looked up at Amon with a smile of triumph. "And I own them all."_

_He turned his outstretched hand in slow motion, and Amon watched the block slide off Zaizen's palm and slowly fall toward the floor, spinning as it fell. Amon felt sudden panic and surged forward. It was falling, it mustn't touch the ground, must not fall…_

_Like a baseball player sliding into home plate Amon threw himself to the ground at Zaizen's feet and caught the cube inches before it made contact with the floor. Safe, it was safe, thank goodness. Before Amon could even figure out what it was about the toy so worth protecting, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Amon looked up to Zaizen's face as the man towered over him, saw the disdain distorting the older man's features. "Worthless," he spat contemptuously, and Amon felt the contact of a well-polished shoe smashing into his ribcage._

* * *

White-hot pain, surface searing with ache underneath, making colored lights dance in Amon's vision as his eyes popped spontaneously open. He felt it again, now with his eyes wide open and staring, the shoe in his dream ramming home into his side, the air blasting out of his lungs. Uncoordinated limbs reached out and sought to fend off the attacker. A lamp beside the bed illuminated the nurse as she tried to restrain him, dropping the bandages she had been holding until a moment ago. 

With surprisingly responsive reflexes, Amon darted a hand out and caught the woman's wrist, instinctively giving it a turn and bending it back. The woman cried out weakly, incapacitated by the pressure hold.

"Where is she?" he gasped, wide eyes sweeping the room but seeing nothing. "Where is she?"

Keeping his grip, Amon pushed with his legs, still heavy with the residue of medicinal narcotics, until he was nearer to a sitting position. He pulled the woman closer using her wrist and used his free hand to grab the hair at the crown of her head, snapping her head back. "Where am I?" he asked instead with a voice that sounded very out of practice.

When the nurse didn't answer, he twisted her wrist a little further behind her. "Answer me," he ground out menacingly.

"I don't know what you're saying!" the woman panted, whimpering with pain. Amon cursed his foggy mind. He had addressed her in Japanese, and she had responded in Italian. Italian was not an easy language for him even on a good day. Under these circumstances he would be impressed if he managed a complete sentence.

He decided to try another tack. "Do you understand me now?" he croaked, the rasp in his parched throat hiding the slight Japanese inflection to the English he was now speaking.

"Yes," she cried out, also in English.

The answer had been a little loud for his taste, and he pulled her head a little further back, compressing the trachea and limiting her air supply. "Don't scream, don't call anyone here," he whispered in her ear, "do you understand?"

"Yes," she answered again, this time in a whisper that matched his own. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know where I am," Amon said, repeating his first question. "Where am I and why am I here?"

He eased up a bit on her head, giving her air needed to speak. "You are at a private hospital in Rome," the nurse explained hastily in heavily accented English. "You were hurt, shot several times, and we are treating you." She tried to swallow and failed. "You must not do anything to me," she pleaded breathily. "I am changing your bandages. I look after you. I have done nothing."

Amon was frantically taking stock of his surrounding and situation. The hospital room was the same as he remembered it, except a look over his shoulder told him no unnerving priest sat in the chair by the door. Thank goodness for small favors. What was highly unfavorable was the state of Amon's body. His naked torso was half bandaged and ached alarmingly. His entire body felt like a lead weight, the result of painkillers, sleeping drugs, both; maybe something even stronger. If he was where he figured now he must be, it would not put it past Solomon HQ to have a drug in their possession strong enough to make a person speak in tongues or be completely paralyzed. Maybe even something as debilitating as Orbo…

He wrestled his attention back to the young woman he had pinned to him in a wrist-lock. "I don't intend to hurt you," he whispered, feeling her body tremble with tears or pain or both. What exactly did he intend to do? He was only in this situation because of fight honed reflexes, defending himself against a perceived attack. Certainly she hadn't been attacking him, and yet…

"How long have I been here?" he asked, fighting down the vertigo the remaining drugs in his system seemed bent on making him experience.

"A little more than a week," came her fast reply, which made him unconsciously twist her arm even tighter.

"Please sir," she gasped, "You are breaking my wrist!" He eased up a little, but didn't let go. A week! He had been here more than seven days, and that was just the time he had been _here_. Who's to say where he had been before that, what route they had taken to bring him here from Japan? Whatever Solomon's intentions were, keeping him drugged and incapacitated in their private hospital wasn't a good sign. He needed out, needed to get back to Japan. He had to find out what had happened, had to know….was Robin alive? And the others, what had happened to them? What the hell had happened?

His dilated eyes glimpsed something on the bedside table and he focused hard. A stainless steel tray with bandages, gauze, alcohol swabs, and a syringe. He released the poor nurse's hair and took hold of her other arm instead, pinning her arms behind her. "What is in that syringe?" he asked quietly, and felt her body stiffen in even more panic. "Is that what they've been giving to me?" With her head now free she took advantage by nodding.

The decision made, Amon used one hand to hold both her wrists and reached for the hypodermic needle. The nurse had now guessed his intention and was struggling despite the increase of pain to her now very sore wrist. Amon pried the cap from the syringe with his teeth and spat it away, sinking the long needle into what he had to guess was the fleshy part of her hip. He pushed the drugs through the needle and then waited. She continued to struggle, crying audibly now, but after 30 seconds she began to quiet. Slowly her body became heavier, her sobs shallower. And then she crumpled to the floor with a sigh.

The room now seemed filled with a roaring silence as he slumped back against the pillows. He was winded, exhausted, and every part of his body was groggily complaining. He sternly sought to ignore the protest, to block the pain. With a groan he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid to his feet, tipping forward like he was drunk. He grabbed the bed, steadying himself. There was no time to wait for the drugs to wear off, whatever it was they had given him. He had to get out of here.

* * *

Amon was on his feet, standing under his own power, which was a vast improvement over the last conscious interlude he'd had. But faded blue hospital scrub pants were all that clothed him. He had no weapon, or even shoes. A cursory look at his torso revealed several gun shot wounds – one over the lower right lung, one high in the deltoid of the left shoulder, and a bullet graze on his left mid oblique. _Swiss cheese,_ he thought sourly, sloppily finishing the bandage job that his waking had interrupted. Then he slowly pulled the long IV needle from his right hand and let it drop. 

The nurse, now unconscious due to the unknown drug he had dosed her with, was crumpled in a heap at his feet. He studied the empty syringe briefly, but the label was not terribly illuminating, simply printed with _SRD 221 50mg. _

He had little time.

He searched the room on silent bare feet looking for anything that might serve as a weapon. Nothing presented itself. His clothing was not in the wardrobe, nothing of his was stowed in the room at all. There was no window, the only way out appeared to be the door leading to the hallway. Stealthily he approached it and pressed his ear to the thick wood. Nothing. Amon eased the door handle down and slowly cracked the door open, eye pressed to the opening. Plush carpeting and soothing ambient light met his eye, reminding him more of a hotel corridor than a hospital.

The hall was deserted. A camera stood in plain view at one end of the corridor, scanning on a ten-second arc, and a look the other way showed another camera on a matching mirrored path. It was impossible. Whenever one scanned the other way the other was pointing inward to the hall and Amon's door. Cursing quietly, Amon eased the door closed again and sat on the edge of his bed.

_How?_ He thought frantically, mentally pushing the cobwebs aside and urging his mind into the icy analytical calm necessary to control the situation. He needed time to consider this, needed time to let the drugs wear off, but time was not a luxury he had. If there was a way out of this room, he needed to find it _now._ Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Amon closed his eyes and cupped his face in his hands.

And that's when he heard it. He remembered the sound, and scanned the room again.

There it was, high in the wall just above the wooden wardrobe, a grated ventilation duct. It was large enough to fit through from the look of it, and Amon was already dragging the cushioned chair toward the wardrobe. Amon retrieved the pass card clipped to the front of the unconscious nurse's blouse and returned to his chair.

With the card clenched in his teeth he attempted to pull himself atop the wardrobe, only to find tears of pain stinging his eyes. The sutures were pulling alarmingly and his limbs trembled violently under his weight. Apparently a week in bed on IV fluids alone had done nothing for his strength or stamina. But there was no other way and Amon knew it. Now if only he could convince his body. Gritting his teeth to trap a groan of pain, Amon ignored the mutiny of his body and with a surge of will he pushed, scrambled, and flopped precariously on top of the large piece of furniture.

He slid carefully along the metal tunnel, and soon other ventilation grates began to appear before him. He was directly above the hallway outside his room and he followed this quietly. He turned left at a T intersection he came to, looking for an empty room that might hold something useful like clothes. A likely such room came into view through a grate, dark and utterly quiet. He pushed the grate aside and lowered himself painfully down.

It was a lounge by the look of it, two couches and a coffee table situated in the middle of the room with a kitchenette in the corner. He checked the closet and found a dark windbreaker. An adjoining door led to a bathroom, another led to a shower and locker room. Here he struck gold. Small lockers held the personal items of staff members and he gratefully pillaged, collecting a white T-shirt, sneakers, and a white lab coat. He dressed the part of a doctor, clipping the nurse's stolen pass card to the coat for a finishing touch.

In the bathroom he slicked back his long ebony hair and fastened it into a smooth ponytail. He glanced in the mirror to check the result of his disguise and was startled at the man looking back. With his hair away from his face, the dark, sunken sockets of his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks was magnified, liberal stubble lining his jaw. _Wow, I look like shit_, he mused.

But that thought was interrupted by the sound of a door opening in the lounge. Amon quickly turned out the light and slid in behind the bathroom door. Footsteps sounded and rustling was heard as someone walked into the locker room. A locker door opened and closed again, then silence. Amon was breathing shallowly, straining his ears for any sound. The pause stretched, then rapid-fire cursing in Italian, little of which Amon understood. Heavy steps heading this way. Amon got ready.

"… and I can't even find my damn shirt," the man was saying as the door opened and the bathroom light turned on. Amon could just see in the mirror the image of a middle aged man in hospital issue garb, scrubbing his shirt angrily with a napkin. He moved to the sink and turned on the tap and Amon moved in behind him.

Without giving the doctor time to see he was not alone, Amon quickly grabbed a handful of the man's hair, the other hand to the small of his back, and slammed him face down into the porcelain sink, then up as Amon assisted him on a head first rush into the wall. The doctor slid down without a sound, knocked out cold.

After depositing the unconscious man in the shower stall and confiscating his electronic pass card as well, Amon stepped out into the hallway, choosing the path leading away from the nurse's station, using the pass card to admit himself into the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

As he limped down the stairs, trying to take a full breath despite his damaged lung, Amon wished fruitlessly for a microphone in his ear with Michael's voice on the other end saying, "I'm sending the blueprints of the hospital to you now, Amon." Short of that, he would welcome the feeling of a gun in his hand. Or the quiet but reassuring presence of Robin following just behind him. Any of those things would be wonderful right about now.

Robin. The thought of her paused his steps for a moment and made him forget his own uncertain situation. His last look at her had been from inside the well as he activated the mechanism that would seal her in. Tears had welled in her astonishing green eyes… she had been calling his name…

_Stop it_, Amon warned himself, _now is not the time for that_. _First you get out of here. Then you find out what happened to her._

At the ground floor he cautiously opened the door and peered out. There were many more people down here, most of whom appeared to be hospital staff. Letting himself into the hallway, Amon attempted to blend into the action by grabbing a patient chart from a door and studying it absently as he walked, all the while looking furtively for the exit. This floor was a maze of hallways and doors, cameras everywhere and no exit in sight.

He was passing another nurse's station when a tall, auburn haired attendant called out to him. "Doctor," she hailed him in Italian, "Hey, sir?"

Cursing inwardly, Amon paused and turned to the woman with a questioning look.

"Are you the consult they were sending down from surgery?" she asked him, looking at him curiously. He could see her taking in his haggard appearance, and he tried to stand a little straighter.

"No, sorry," he grumbled, turning and continuing down the hallway. Unfortunately this nurse was not to be put off so easily.

"Well what are you doing down here then?" she inquired curiously as she caught up and matched stride, trying to catch a glimpse at the pilfered file in his hands. He shoved it under his arm. "Are you looking for someone? I don't remember seeing you before."

"I'm new," he answered slowly, cursing himself for not keeping in better practice with his Italian. "I was just leaving." He gave her his best 'Don't Screw With Me' scowl.

She frowned in return. "Then you're going the wrong way, the Atrium's back and down the west corridor. Wow, you must be new because…"

"Thank you," he cut her off gruffly, turning on his heel and picking up the pace.

Amon hurriedly began retracing his steps, following the nurse's directions as best he could figure. Spying the placard indicating him down another hallway to reach the Atrium, he came upon a roadblock. To continue down this hallway, one had to pass between two guards and insert an ID pass card into a turnstile. He hesitated, but only for a moment before squaring his shoulders and approaching, trying to look distracted and immersed in the patient chart he was carrying. The guards nodded to him and he nodded back, unclipping the pass card from his coat and running it through the slot without even slowing his step.

He knew immediately that something was wrong. A phone beside one of the guards began ringing and the man picked it up. His greeting was cut off and he listened for several seconds and hung up. Amon continued walking and reading the file.

"What?" he heard one guard ask the other as Amon hurried forward.

"That guy's not authorized.'"

"Who, that doctor?"

"Well go stop him!"

Amon turned the corner and passed through a cluster of people waiting to board an elevator. He dropped the file and shed the white coat, revealing the black windbreaker beneath. He pulled out the rubber band and shook his hair loose, looking over his shoulder as he did so to see the guard rounding the corner.

Through the milling people Amon could see it now, a glass bank of doors directly before him across a large expanse of marble floor. High above soared a glass ceiling, blue sky and clouds visible through the panes. He tried to look unhurried, he could hear the guard behind him, he just had to get to the doors and the people passing on the sidewalk outside. He could disappear then. Thirty yards to go…

"Hey! Dark coat! Stop!" The guard yelled. Amon urged his body into a jog.

"Stop where you are!" Twenty yards…

The sound of others joining the pursuit convinced Amon's trembling legs into a run. His chest was on fire. Ten yards…

The security guard near the door spotted the pursuit and drew his pistol, stepping between Amon and his escape. Before he had time to aim Amon lowered his head and rushed him in a burst of speed, ploughing into the man's chest, spinning in around behind him, grabbing his arm and taking control of the gun while using the man as a human shield.

They were facing into the atrium, the guard unwilling pointing his gun at his fellows who had stopped running but who had not lowered their own weapons. Amon no longer heard their warnings, was deaf to the scared cries of the onlookers. His sole focus was slowly dragging the man backward toward the door.

He was almost there, almost there….green orbs floated in his vision, he fought to stay on his feet, green orbs like eyes, emerald eyes, Robin's eyes shining as she looked at him, tears spilling over her ivory cheeks… _Robin, help me, I can't breathe… I can't breathe…_

* * *

"I think this has gone on long enough, don't you?" A woman's conversational voice called out from behind him. 

Amon spun around, felt himself fall forward, and had a face full of pillow as a very strong individual pushed him down on the bed and pinned his hands. He struggled wildly, but his prone position was suffocating him and he eventually gave up. When he showed no signs of fight, the hands pinning him pulled him over onto his back and he looked up into chocolate brown eyes in a stern but beautiful female face, the female attendant who had questioned him!

He was back in his bed, in his hospital room, and the gray haired priest stood before the door while the brown-eyed woman stood over Amon.

How? God _damn_ it _how_ had he gotten back into his room? He hadn't dreamt all that, he _hadn't_…

The priest was looking at him with his typical lack of expression. Those almost colorless eyes, like a thin winter sky, searing into his own.

"The nurse is unconscious," said the woman in American English, and Amon looked to the floor where the nurse had fallen. That much then, at least, he hadn't imagined.

"You've got some fight in you, huh?" The auburn haired woman was addressing Amon. "We leave you alone for five minutes…" She shook her head with the ghost of a smile. "That's the third hospital employee you've hurt! I swear, you're better unconscious then most agents are awake!"

She looked about to continue, but the priest raised a hand and she closed her mouth firmly, shoving her hands into the pockets of the black trenchcoat she wore.

It was all beginning to come clear to Amon. "It was an earth Craft, wasn't it?" he rasped, looking at the priest, then to the woman. "An illusion." The woman nodded and flicked her eyes to the old man. "You did it," Amon realized with a look to the black clad man. His expression neither confirmed nor denied it, but Amon could sense it.

"Father Adrian was posted here to ensure everyone's safety," the female agent informed Amon, "and to control your reactions. We quickly found that restraining you did no good. You're like Houdini." There was the faint smile again, her eyes betraying amusement and a touch of respect.

"I want some answers," Amon stated firmly as he sat up. "Why am I being held here?"

The woman shook her head. "You're not being held. You're recovering from several gun shot wounds and a surgery to repair your collapsed lung." When Amon opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. "I swear, you're not a prisoner. We are trying to help you. The precautions," and here she glanced to Father Adrian still standing silently by the door, "are in place because you are being a very uncooperative patient. You are at Solomon's private hospital facility. You are among friends, believe me."

"Friends who shot me in the first place," Amon pointed out dryly.

The woman grimaced. "Unfortunate, but not intentional. You'll have answers Mr. Amon. You just need patience." Then she glanced at her feet. "And you need to stop hurting the staff." A smile. "Agreed?"

Amon looked between the two Solomon agents, then addressed the woman. "Who are you?"

She extended her hand. "Morgan Excelior, agent and aide to Father Adrian. I'm glad to finally meet you. Juliano speaks of you often."


	3. Only Questions

Author's note_: Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far, I really appreciate it, and I always welcome insight or comment. And if you're reading this, then you must have made it through the rambling, five thousand-word epic that was last chapter. So thanks for hanging in there! I'm keeping this one short and simple, because the following chapters are going to be more complicated. At least I think so!_

**Chapter 3: Only Questions**

The next four days were devoted solely to bed rest and recovery, now that Amon had promised to behave himself. Father Adrian took him at his word and ceased his bedside vigil, though Morgan checked up on him for several minutes every afternoon to make sure he was complying with treatment. They had also agreed, at Amon's insistence, that no more sedatives be administered, leaving him lucid enough to consider things.

Time, after all, is all one has when one is confined to bed with the strict command to stay there. And so Amon went about the task of putting his mental house in order.

What dominated most of his time was the arrangement and rearrangement of the questions crowding his head. There were so many, but the first question he needed the answer to loomed over them all – why had Headquarters attacked the STNJ? He had assumed it was to hunt Robin, since both previous attempts to do so had failed. He physically winced away from over-consideration of the part he had played in that scenario. But the facts of the matter pointed elsewhere. While Robin may have been a secondary objective, she was not the primary reason Solomon had assaulted its Tokyo base office. So if not her, then _what_?

All other concerns and questions arose from this single event. Had Robin made it out? Had she made it to Nagira, and had he taken her in? Amon wanted to believe that his half-brother would not ignore the plea for help, especially as Amon had never before asked for such a favor. Nagira could keep her safe. After all, how many people had his older brother helped to vanish from under the nose of the STNJ?

Yes, Amon assured himself firmly, she _had_ made it out. She _had_ made it to his brother, and _he_ was now ensuring her safety. But imagining was not the same as knowing. Not at all.

He couldn't think on this any more. The anxiety it produced couldn't be labeled, much less expressed. There was no one in this room asking 'why did you help her when your orders were to hunt her? Why are you thinking of her _now_?' Yet he felt as privately about it, yes, even as guilty, as if he were under the Inquisition.

_Stop it_, Amon ordered himself. _No more of this_.

True to his word, so to speak, he steered his thoughts to another course, albeit of a similar theme. What had happened to the others when STNJ was attacked? He knew what he had _seen_, and that alone was enough to produce a swallow of apprehension. The room had been a war zone, and his co-workers had been the casualties. All of them shot, all bloodied, all unconscious. Even the porter downstairs had not been spared. Amon had not had the time or the firepower to save them all. As it looked, it appeared he would have been very little use to them anyway; too late to spare them.

There had been a single person standing, and _she_ was the person he had come for to begin with.

_Damn it_, he growled mentally. _Knock it_ _off_.

He slid out of bed and gingerly got to his feet, too full of nervous energy to lie there a moment longer. There was nowhere to go but he paced the short trip around his bed again and again, occasionally raking his fingers through his long black hair and flexing his torso experimentally. It was feeling better, subsiding to a deep ache when he moved it too far or took too deep a breath. His left shoulder was stiff and its mobility was still limited, but he worked this too in slow circles. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he'd feel like himself.

As he continued to pace and administer rehab, he chewed on another question. He had been wounded by the Solomon strike team, as the others had. Had they all been taken to Rome as he had? Was his entire team even now dispersed in this hospital? Amon halted before the crucifix on the wall and studied it pensively. STN Japan had been a cowboy outfit, making its own rules, running its own game. Was the strike a strategy by Headquarters to bring the disobedient child back in line?

Amon was still glaring at the cross when the door swung open. Morgan appeared in the doorway, and upon seeing him on his feet she leaned casually against the jam. "Tsk tsk naughty boy," she scolded playfully. She was dressed today in camel colored pants and a soft looking chocolate shirt that flattered her eyes, STN issue black trench over all, auburn hair falling freely around her shoulders. Amon took all this in with a sidelong glance and then looked back to the crucifix.

"I see there's no more point trying to convince you to stay in bed," she observed as he went back to his slow U shaped course around the room. "I figured as much." Waiting until he turned to look at her, she brought her hand from behind her back and produced a black gym bag.

She tossed it to him and crossed to the bed as he caught it one handed. "What's this?" he asked, not waiting for an answer as he unzipped the bag.

"Your clothes," she replied, draping beside her the long black coat she'd had over her arm. He began pulling articles of clothing from the bag and frowned as he unfolded them. "Well, not yours exactly," she admitted. "Yours weren't exactly fit for wear, what with bullet holes and blood and all that. I was told to pick out other stuff. Hope it meets your exacting standards."

Another sidelong glance showed she was teasing. "I just couldn't figure out what your preferred color was," she said in mock seriousness. Amon's scowl deepened. Every article of clothing he pulled from the bag was black, the color he always dressed in.

"You're welcome," came the brusque retort to his frown. "Now get dressed. Time to check out of here."

* * *

"Where are you taking me?" he asked suspiciously as the two agents reclined against the leather seats of a chauffeured sedan. Rome was rolling by the darkly tinted windows, dappled in the hit and miss sunlight of a fall afternoon, clouds lazily collecting and separating in a crisp blue sky.

"One of the apartments has been prepared for your use," she replied. When Amon looked at her blankly, she explained. "Solomon owns quite a lot of property all throughout Rome. It's all used for various purposes, but what we're talking about in your case is an apartment that's used whenever a foreign agent visits Headquarters. Yours is near the Vatican City." Morgan smiled. "Keeping you close, I expect."

"What do you mean?"

She brushed the question away absently. "Nothing. You'll like the place. I'm sure it'll be a lot more comfortable than the hospital." Amon opened his mouth to ask another question but she ignored this and looked out her window instead, watching the coagulating traffic in which they were being carried slip uncertainly by like blood through a clogged artery.

Amon was no stranger to silence and he too looked out at the passing city, knowing Morgan would eventually break the pause that to most people would be uncomfortable.

Much to his surprise, however, Morgan seemed quite at ease, every line of her body suggesting relaxation. Amon now found himself in position entirely unknown to him – wanting to talk. After all, he wanted the answers to the questions that crowded ever closer in his mind. He was now standing on the precipice of breaking the stalemate, and was uncertain how to proceed.

He decided straightforwardness the best course. "I have questions," he said stiffly, hoping to sound unconcerned and confident.

Her look was serious but her tone slightly dismissive when she answered, "No doubt." When it was obvious by his look he was not going to accept this reply, she continued. "I'm not the one to give you answers."

"Who then?" A slight frown formed between her well-groomed brows. "Father Adrian?"

Now Morgan's countenance cleared and she smirked. "God no. You won't be getting anything out of him." After a moment she decided to let him in on the joke. "Father Adrian is mute. A vow of silence to be more exact. He hasn't spoken in, God, I don't even know how long. Certainly not since I've known him."

Well that explained his eerie silence then. "You said you work for him as his aide, do I remember correctly?"

She nodded. "I was assigned to him five years ago. Taking a vow of silence means having someone to speak for you, at least when you're as high up as Adrian is."

"And how far is that?"

"He's a Master Hunter," she replied shrewdly, "as you've seen for yourself."

The memory of his violent and very convincing illusion made Amon clench his jaw. Being in the clutches of a Craft User that powerful had definitely left an impression. He chose to change the subject. "So you speak for him, do things for him. But how do you know what he wants if he doesn't speak?"

Morgan shrugged her shoulders. "That has largely come with time. Knowing him well allows me to read his body language and expression." Amon highly doubted - if his experience with the Father was any indication - that Adrian gave much away in his expression. Ever.

Morgan was still speaking. "And what I can't ascertain from him that way he communicates to me in other ways." A pause. "Writing, you know, that sort of thing."

Realizing he had willingly been led off topic, Amon steered it around again. "So if not Adrian and not you, who do I need to talk to? Who has the answers?"

The car had pulled up to the curb, and Morgan opened her door. "We're here," she called as she climbed out, leaving Amon grinding his teeth. Was she dodging the question or just playing with him?

'Here' was an obviously old but very well kept stone building with large windows sandwiched between other buildings of a similar style. It spoke of money without overstating the issue – a dark clad doorman stood unobtrusively under the unmarked awning leading up the front steps and into a tastefully furnished lobby where another dark attendant stood at attention. A old fashioned elevator complete with sliding iron gate lifted them with heaves and groans to the third floor, where Morgan unlocked a massive oak double door and ushered him into his apartment.

The door opened to a foyer, which emptied into a large living room. Well-preserved parquet floors shone beneath Persian rugs and heavy red drapes showed off the huge windows lining the far wall. Amon passed the comfortable plush furniture in the center of the room to take in the view. Beyond the buildings on the other side of the street, the dome of a giant cathedral could be seen in the near distance. Vatican City was indeed quite close.

Morgan had followed Amon into the living room and she tossed a set of keys onto the mahogany coffee table. "Not bad, huh?" she stated, a sweep of her arm taking in the plush apartment and the view outside. Amon didn't respond, standing with his back to the windows.

"I have to return to Father Adrian," Morgan said, "but if you need anything just pick up the phone and give the operator my name. The switchboard will page me."

"Solomon owns the whole building then?"

Morgan smiled wanly. "Solomon owns everything." The weak grin slid from her face and an air of gravity fell heavy between them. She walked to Amon and stood before him, her chestnut eyes probing his own. "I don't suggest you wander very far," she said in a near whisper, leaning in as though confiding a secret. "Stay here for now, okay? Don't leave here with anyone but me."

She was very close now, close enough for Amon to feel her breath on his face, to smell the lilac perfume she wore. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"For your own protection."

"Protection from what?"

She didn't answer, but her intense gaze made him feel as though she was trying to impart something crucial. The moment stretched out and she let her gaze linger just long enough to put Amon off balance. Then she stepped back and the moment was broken. Turning on her heel she headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Be good, Houdini."

He stopped her just before she reached the door. "Morgan," he called. She turned and looked at him expectantly. "Answer me one question."

She slumped ever so slightly. "If I can," she replied unpromisingly.

"Where is the rest of my team?" he asked quietly. "Were they brought to Rome as well?"

Morgan stared at him, expressionless. Finally she opened her mouth. "They're in Japan."

Amon's instincts prickled. "I was the only one brought here?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Why?"

She shook her head. "I only agreed to answer one question. I think I've answered two. You're out of luck buddy."

Her hand was on the doorknob and he called out again. "I need to know what's going on."

She opened the door and turned to look at him over her shoulder. "You will."

* * *

Morgan exited the apartment building and walked briskly to the waiting car, sliding into the back seat a moment before the sedan pulled smoothly out into late afternoon traffic. Across the street in a sleek black Porsche, a pale, blonde haired man picked up his cell phone and punched a number.

"I found him. Yes, you were right. He was brought to a company apartment."

The man paused to listen. "I understand, but she got there before me and…"

He was cut off by the other person on the line. "Yes," he grated around a clenched jaw. "I should have foreseen it. I accept the failing. But the point is that we know where he is."

The man listened, tapping long ivory fingers impatiently against the supple leather of the steering wheel, his glacially blue eyes riveted to the door of the building Morgan had just left.

He sighed, irritated, and ran a hand through his spiky platinum hair. "We can't just go in after him?" He waited for the answer. "Of course. Very well. I'll just have to wait for him to come out."

A question came over the line and the man snorted indignantly. "He'll leave. I don't know what she did or didn't tell him, but he's arrogant. He won't accept being locked up."

Another pause to listen. "No, I don't want backup." He considered the caller's next words before replying. "He's only a Seed."

The person on the other end of the conversation made a comment, and the man's ice chip eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, he's dangerous … but so am I."


	4. At All Costs

Author's Note_: Please let me repeat myself and thank all the very kind people who reviewed this story. It really means a lot, and you're all very sweet. And a huge thank you to the few brave souls who are still reading this. You guys rock._

_And, because I haven't said it for a couple chapters now, I suppose I have to break my own heart by declaring I don't own WHR. _

**Chapter 4: At All Costs **

The chauffeured sedan slid to a halt outside a grandiose townhouse not far from the apartment it had recently left and Morgan took a moment to just look at it. For a priest who had taken a vow of poverty, Juliano lived awfully well, she decided wryly. It was understandable. The man who was the head of the Hunting program of Solomon, premier Hunter Trainer and Master Hunter in his own right held a unfathomable amount of power in his aged hands. Solomon rewarded him with a comfortable living. It was only a fair trade. This man had given his life to the organization she worked for; had been at the top of his game and holding the reins of power before she'd even been born.

This thought made the trip to the door a nerve-wracking affair. She was due to meet with this powerful man, and though she was far from weak or insubstantial, she couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the man called Juliano Colegui. It wasn't simply his towering stature or broad shoulders. Every aspect of Juliano, from the wild white hair to the intense eyes overwhelmed a person with an aura of power.

The butler let her in and informed her that his master and hers were awaiting her in the Father's private study. Squaring her shoulders, she followed the servant past decadently appointed rooms and waited as he announced her and beckoned her in.

Father Juliano was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk with his fingers steepled under his chin, but he rose politely as she entered. He waved her into an antique armchair on the other side of the desk and beside the chair where Father Adrian sat with preternatural stillness.

The Master Hunter did not sit again until she had sat herself and politely refused the offer of refreshment. His lined face was softened into a smile but his light green eyes were all business as he asked, "I hope Amon is satisfied and comfortable with his arrangements."

She returned the smile nervously. "Comfortable undoubtedly, but never satisfied, at least if my intuition is correct."

Father Juliano nodded at this. "If I were in the business of diagnosis, I would say Amon suffers from divine discontent. Admirable, especially in our line of work. But his soul is burdened by the responsibility of an insatiably guilty conscience." He smiled and shook his head. "But my life was never devoted to psychiatry, nor do I have your keen insight, your 'intuition' as you call it. So, my dear, what can you tell us?"

She swallowed. "Well sir, the doctors tell me he is making an exceptional recovery. His wounds are all but healed, though the damage within might take more time to subside." Juliano nodded for her to continue. "His frame of mind is less certain, however. There's a lot of confusion, understandable in this situation. He has many questions and is frustrated by the lack of answers."

"He is used to being the man people report to. He does not take lack of control or authority with good humor, a sentiment I completely sympathize with."

Morgan highly doubted Juliano had been burdened much with either situation, but left the comment unremarked upon. "He is restless, but I wouldn't call him reckless."

She felt a tug on her conscious mind and closed her eyes, then nodded. "He is a consummate Hunter, and has the patience to reflect this."

Juliano directed his reply to the Father sitting beside Morgan. "I would agree with your assessment, Adrian." Then his piercing eyes returned to Morgan. "Anything else?"

And here she felt her nerves rising a little. "Sir, I'm afraid all I have is this general knowledge at this time." His face reflected his disapproval, and she rushed to explain herself. "Sir, his emotions of frustration and confusion are clear, but his deeper mind is closed. Utterly closed, I've never run up against something like it unless the person was trained to protect themselves from psychic attack or intrusion."

"And he had no such training." Morgan didn't have to ask how Juliano knew this. A Hunter's training was his ultimate concern and he knew all on the subject.

Still, Amon's ability to block out her very powerful psychic Craft was impressive and she had to pursue the issue. "I understand that Amon is a Seed. Is there a possibility that his Gift is psychic in nature?"

Juliano grimaced at this. "If you understand that Amon is a Seed, it is because he prefers it that way."

Morgan opened her mouth to protest and point out that his own file told as much but Juliano would brook no interruption. "And no, his Craft is not psychic in nature."

Morgan, though baffled at this, could read the Father's tone. End of discussion.

He steepled his fingers again, deep in thought, then turned to Adrian again. "What about when he was under the influence of your Craft?"

Morgan closed her eyes and memorized the statement and then opened them again. "There was one image," she said softly. "A girl's face looking up from below, green eyes, reddish blond hair. She was crying, reaching her hand to him."

Juliano made no physical reaction, but Morgan's fine tuned Craft felt him cringe slightly. "Was there any further detail to the image?"

Morgan shook her head. "I'm sorry sir, but no."

Disappointment was carefully concealed behind Juliano's studiously bland expression. "Very well. Your continuing assignment then, Agent Excelior, is to find a way behind that wall." He stopped and looked at her hard. "At all costs. It is vital I know what's going on in his mind right now."

Morgan gripped the arms of her chair unconsciously. "Father I don't think I can-"

Juliano set one hand softly on his desk, all the motion needed to quiet her. "Excuses are of no use to me Morgan." The look he gave her now was cold, and she felt sudden sympathy for those Juliano had Hunted. The gaze alone was paralyzing. She couldn't have looked away if her life depended on it.

"Get into his head, Morgan," he said in measured tones just above a whisper. "Be creative. He is a very private man, _but_," and here his eyes pierced her utterly, "Amon is still a _man_. There are ways, Agent. I expect you to find them."

_That young man holds the key to a very important riddle, Morgan,_ a voice whispered clearly in her mind. Juliano had released her from his gaze at last and she turned to Father Adrian who was studying his hands. _Have you not wondered why a single Hunter from Japan has suddenly caught the attention of so many people of power within the organization?_ She nodded as Adrian glanced at her from the corner of his eye. _He is at the center of a situation that cuts to the heart of Solomon. We need the information he has._

"It would be helpful if I knew what I was looking for," Morgan responded recklessly to Adrian's declaration, blanching even as the words left her lips. It wasn't her place to know more than what her master and the Master Hunter chose to tell her. To suggest they had not told her enough was insubordination and the fire behind Adrian's eyes suggested as much.

However Juliano didn't seem particularly perturbed. He looked thoughtful, almost uncertain. But then his features resolved to their usual state of calm integrity.

"Look for his partner," he finally replied, cryptic as always. "She's the key you need. Everything else will organize around that."

And with that he rose, an indication that the others follow his example. "Thank you for the briefing, and thank you both for your efforts in this matter. I don't think I need to remind you," and here he was looking at Morgan, "that this matter is of highest clearance and not to be divulged under any circumstances."

Both Hunters nodded, and with that he bid them goodbye and the butler appeared to escort them to their car. Once settled on the leather seats and rolling toward Adrian's slightly less grand apartments, Morgan let her hands rest for a moment on her face before raking them back through her hair.

_You need to learn the difference between thinking and speaking young one,_ Adrian spoke wryly in her mind.

She snuck a guilty glance at him and nodded meekly. "Yeah, I flubbed that."

_All kidding aside, you need to take this seriously,_ Adrian admonished like the father figure he was to Morgan, his features firming even more than the expressionless norm. _And it needs to be tonight. Juliano is expecting all haste._

When she didn't answer, Adrian put a wizened hand on her forearm, capturing her attention. He rarely touched _anyone_, and she looked at him with surprise.

_Morgan, go there tonight. Find a way in. Time is running by, and it is not on our side. _

She looked beseechingly at him. "Father, how? How do I get into Amon's mind?"

And here he looked out the window, by all appearances ignoring her plea. However in her mind came the answer, tinged with ironic humor.

She started like a sleeper waking and turned fully to Father Adrian. "You want me to _what?"_

* * *

The light was fading to gold and rose outside the grand windows, and Juliano absently watched the fading light soften the edges of the angular city outside. After the two Hunters had departed Juliano had returned to his office and pretended to attend to various mundane matters, but it didn't take long for him to push it aside with frustration. His mind was moving much too fast, and moving in a direction contrary to irrelevant busywork such as input to decommission ratios of the last five years. So he did what he always did when his mind refused to be harnessed by his will – he prayed.

A room in his manor had been put aside for just such a purpose, free of distraction and over-extravagance, and his steps led him to the place with the assurance of long practice. A very old wooden prayer bench with kneeler was situated in the middle of the room, facing a large crucifix flanked by candle sconces that burned day and night. He sank to his knees at the bench and pressed his clasped hands to a furrowed brow.

_Please Lord,_ his mind called out to the intangible, _please let me right this wrong. Please don't let Robin be the atonement for sins older than she is. _

But at the thought of the young woman his will unraveled, _please_ being the only truly formed prayer as his mind raced along its own forbidden path.

_If I had only known … so many things, so much ignorance and pride has led me to this moment. If only I had known what the Arcanum really was, I would never have put her in the path of it. I should never have let her go, not knowing what Zaizen intended to use her for. Zaizen, in his fear of spies, in his need for secrecy with his damnable project, only agreeing to a new team member if it was her. Damn him; damn him for knowing I am her grandfather and for holding it over my head all these years, the knife constantly hovering over my head for fifteen long years. All the while appeasing him for the sake of his knowledge, letting him blackmail me using Robin's very existence, silencing my conscience about his demonic project to save my own reputation. A reputation marred by my own conduct so long ago that it may as well have been another man who did it. _

_But I did do it, _his stoic mind reminded him firmly, _I had an affair while in the priesthood, a member of Solomon, and with a _witch_ to boot, God help me. And Maria was the result. And how, Lord, _how_ was I to hunt my own daughter? What fault was it of hers that she was a witch? The sins of her father, original sin of a whole new meaning…_

He had been over it so many times before. Every night the same debate, the same justifications, the same conclusions revisited so often they were threadbare as the velvet he knelt on. And yet the doubt and guilt remained. Sins that built on each other, atoned or not, until the present moment.

_The daughter of my daughter!_ _It is not her sin,_ he cried to his silent God, casting his eyes to the crucifix, _yet I am weak. I see nothing but darkness ahead and my heart is so heavy. God, _he begged his Maker, _God I must do the thing I didn't do fifteen years ago but now, even now I am too weak to do it myself. How wretched I am that I must send another in my place, how wretched, how cowardly. God, please show me the way, I must kill her and my soul cries out against it, I must resign myself to Your will but my heart rebels and I am lost. Please Lord, please…. Please._

And as he whispered the word over and over again, cracked rasping and shuddering breath, he no longer knew what he was asking for.

* * *

"I feel utterly ridiculous," Morgan sighed to herself, once again in the car, a car that she was beginning to feel like she lived in. She tried not to fidget with her hair, which she had spent far too long coaxing into the 'tousled but sexy' look. However she couldn't help but pluck self consciously at the short denim skirt she was wearing, the only sexy, non work attire she owned that was casual enough to pass off as normal and not as a ploy to soften Amon up. _Soften him up_, she mused with a self-conscious half smile. _I don't think soften is what Father Adrian had in mind when he told me to dress sexy._

Morgan wrenched her mind away from the double entendre she had just created and tried instead to focus on her mission once the car reached its destination. Her job tonight was to bring Amon a nice dinner. She reached out and reassured herself for the zillionith time that she had not in fact left it on the kitchen counter. Over food and some wine she was instructed to ingratiate herself with the cold Hunter, looking for any chink in his armor that would allow her to glimpse the information Juliano insisted on having.

_At all costs_. Morgan heard Juliano's words in her mind and she suppressed a shiver. She was authorized by her foremost superior to use any means necessary to accomplish her mission. Including lies. False friendship. Morgan swallowed hard. Seduction. Yes, both her masters were relying on her considerable charms to disarm a seasoned Hunter enough for her to plumb his mind for information.

_Not like this_, a small voice pleaded in the back of her mind.

She had gone undercover before, of course; this was not new ground. She had dissembled and deceived for the sake of her mission many times before. But for the first time she felt remorse for her falseness. For once she could admit to herself that the desire for intimacy in order to gain proximity was no act. Amon was an intriguing man, an excellent Hunter, and yes, he was unnervingly attractive.

No, finding the desire to seduce him wouldn't be a problem. The only problem would be swallowing the regret that she was using him.

The sedan slid to a halt and she opened the door.

* * *

Walls, no matter how beautiful and tastefully decorated, could not be anything but barriers in Amon's eyes and he glowered at them, pacing the luxurious apartment like a caged panther. Restless, he watched the gathering dark outside, did a circuit of the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bedroom before returning to the windows and checking the progress of the setting sun. It was mocking him, taking its time, making it abundantly clear that it was free to take all the time in the world. It was free, free, and he was not.

Of course Morgan had not expressly stated that he was imprisoned, but she may as well have. Amon was no newcomer to Solomon. The dark suited attendants downstairs were not attendants at all. They were agents, and they were Amon's jailers. Any attempt to leave would be met with stiff resistance, and Amon's healing condition constantly reminded him he was not quite ready for a fight.

At this thought Amon probed his shoulder lightly and rolled it a few times, continuing his course through the apartment. It came down to choices, his dispassionate brain explained, and he had several.

He could, for instance, sit down on the sofa as he had sat in the hospital bed and cooperate, placidly waiting for whoever was behind all this to make their will known. He grimaced. Not godamn likely.

Another choice would be to open that door, go downstairs, and rush the guards, hoping his stamina and stitches held up against what would definitely be no schoolyard scrap. This choice was more appealing and he worried it briefly like candy on the tongue, but shook his head not long after. A choice, certainly. But a foolish one, and lacking any finesse. Besides, he had no weapon, a problem his opponents certainly wouldn't have.

All right then. He paused at the large window for the upteenth time and stared through the glass. What he needed was stealth, stealth and no small share of luck. A look out the window informed him of the lack of fire escapes in his apartment, but maybe in another… perhaps the roof…

Suddenly his footsteps halted mid stride. _Why_, he asked himself, _am I trying to leave at all? Where do I intend to go? What do I intend to do once I'm there? I want answers, but where would the answers be if not with the person who brought me here? _

Amon actually groaned aloud in frustration and threw himself into an upholstered chair nearby. His need to leave, he decided after consideration, was simply on the principle of refusing to acquiesce to the will of a person or persons who had so far shown no intention of explaining any of their actions to him, not to mention their identity. And Amon, never accustomed to sitting idle when he could be moving ever closer to the goal, balked at the idea of enduring even one more motionless hour.

_If they won't give me answers_, Amon thought, _then I'd best go find them_. But where to go? His brain turned this problem over in his mind several times before the lightbulb lit.

_Of course_. Somehow his being in Rome and the recent events in Japan revolved around a single person; he felt confident in this assumption. And what better place to find the man who knew her best?

_Yes_, he decided firmly. Juliano Colegui was the person to talk to. If he got out of here, he could find the Father. After all, Amon was a Hunter and not wholly without resources.

_And what if,_ his maddeningly rational brain questioned, _Father Juliano is the very person who has been keeping you here?_ "So much the better," Amon replied out loud. What better way to assert his independence and resolve than to arrive on the Master Hunter's doorstep, forcing the older man's play and refusing to be ignored?

And if Juliano wasn't the man behind all this, then surely he must still have some worthwhile insight. He wouldn't be ignorant of the situation in Japan, not at the level he was at. Not with one of his Master Hunters closely involved, his own ward by some accounts.

Decided at last, Amon rose to his feet. It was time to find a way out and pay an old but very powerful man a visit.

* * *

Morgan entered the downstairs lobby and nodded curtly to the agent standing watch there.

"Any activity?" she asked as she pressed the call button for the elevator.

"Not a sound," he replied, trying unsuccessfully to hide his boredom as he shifted from one foot to the other.

Morgan, however, could feel his mind shake off the cobwebs fairly fast as his eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. The elevator seemed to be having even more trouble than usual and she cursed under her breath. The male agent was all eager attention now, offering to hold the bag of food, insinuating that she may need help running the elevator.

She brushed him off and shut the grate firmly in reply, pushing the third floor button with more determination than was strictly called for. The lift took its time getting her to Amon's door, and she spent the time pondering why comfortable clothes such as sneakers couldn't be considered sexy attire. Her feet and ankles, unaccustomed to high heels, were wobbling and complaining simultaneously.

Morgan finally made it to Amon's door and she didn't give herself time to think, reaching out and knocking firmly instead. A moment passed, then stretched, and then became uncomfortable. Perhaps he was asleep. She knocked again, and again had no result. So she slid her key into the lock and eased the door open, calling his name loudly as she entered as not to invade his privacy.

The bag of quickly cooling food dropped to the floor with a squelch.

Morgan teetered out the door, cursed the elevator, then kicked off her damned heels, sprinting barefoot down the stairs two at a time.

She reached the bottom and slid across the glossy floor only to grab the flirtatious agent by his lapels.

His mouth was agape with surprise, and she closed her fist around the desire to slap him. "Find him," she choked, releasing him to fumble through her handbag for her cell phone.

"Wha…. What? Who?"

She raised her voice over the heartbeat thundering in her ears. "Find him!" she yelled while pushing him toward the door. "Find Amon!"

Morgan turned her back on his confused and panicked expression as her call connected on the other end. She fought to control her voice, control her breath.

"Father, we have a problem."


	5. Following Orders

**Ch. 5: Following Orders**

It was full dark now, and the blond haired man had been sitting in his car for what felt like an eternity. He knew the front of the building down to the number of stones, could accurately number the windows and the panes of glass comprising each. It was a waiting game, and he knew Amon would not suffer idleness long. Only a matter of time now…

His patience was rewarded when he spotted movement. A dark haired man in a long black coat separated himself from the gloom of the black alley and hurried off down the sidewalk, keeping tight against the buildings and moving in the shadows. Amon.

He punched a number into his phone while keeping an eye on the retreating figure in his side mirror. The line connected and he spoke quickly. "This is Grieg," the blond haired man stated, "and I have the target spotted. He's in the open and I'm tailing. I need a team to track me, but wait for my signal before closing in." Agent Grieg listened for the confirmation before closing the phone with a sharp snap.

But as he slipped it back in the pocket of his long black leather coat and grabbed the door handle, movement on the street made him pause. A familiar black sedan had pulled to a stop and a woman slid out of the backseat and entered the building he had spent the day scrutinizing.

Grieg waited for Morgan to clear the door before jumping out of his own car. It would be only moments now before she knew Amon was no longer in the nest Father Juliano had secured for him. She would realize he was gone and would raise the alarm. Shrugging his coat a little higher on his shoulders, he quickly followed Amon's footsteps. He had to retrieve the missing Hunter _first_. There was no other option.

* * *

Morgan, barefoot and winded, stood in the lobby of the apartment with the phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline. "Father, we have a problem."

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "What kind of problem?" Juliano asked calmly.

Too calmly. Morgan had heard that tone of voice from him not even half a day ago; knew the expression that accompanied it. A chill trickled down her spine and she clutched the phone harder. "Amon's gone."

"Amon's gone," Juliano repeated slowly.

"Yes sir, gone. The agents downstairs say there wasn't a sound, no indication that anything was out of the ordinary. We're not even sure how he left."

"You're assuming," Juliano replied, "that Amon left of his own volition."

"Sir, I've been inside the apartment. There were no signs of a struggle, and the door was locked. The evidence suggests he chose to leave, not that he was taken."

The silence at Juliano's end of the phone indicated he was either thinking or he was furious. Morgan feared that perhaps it was both.

Morgan's nerves couldn't stand the buzzing silence any longer and she spoke up. "Sir if I go now, it is possible he is not far away. If he's close then I might be able to sense him."

"No Morgan, stay where you are. I am sending a team to you and I want you to wait for them. I need to contact someone, but I will await your call when the team arrives. By then we should have a clearer picture of the situation."

Her jaw clenched hard. "Sir if we wait –"

"You _will_ wait for the team, Agent," Juliano interrupted firmly. "Inform me when they arrive."

She wanted to sigh petulantly but didn't dare. "Yes Father," she said obediently, and heard the click of Juliano hanging up. Now she did allow her held breath to release in a rush, pushing her disheveled hair from her face with irritation.

The agent she had grabbed by the collar had not gone out to the street as instructed, but instead had sprinted up the stairs to the apartment to confirm Amon's absence with his own eyes. Now he returned, holding Morgan's discarded shoes in his hands. "Are these yours?" he asked.

Morgan snatched them from the agent and looked down at the loathsome heels. Distraction became thoughtful, then focused. She dropped the shoes and slid her feet into them. "Agent, there is a team arriving soon. When they get here I want you to inform them of the situation."

"Where are _you_ going?"

She headed for the door. "To find Amon."

* * *

Juliano pressed his palms flat against the desktop and closed his eyes. Control and calm, he needed both right now but both were eluding him. He took a deep breath and took his time letting it out.

He didn't believe Amon had left. It wasn't that he couldn't believe it of the young, headstrong Hunter, but rather that his fears dictated otherwise. There was another person interested in Amon's whereabouts and information, and it could be the person in question was sending Juliano a message. Or staging a coup.

Juliano reached for the phone and dialed swiftly. It was a private line and he didn't bother introducing himself. "We need to talk," he stated in lieu of a greeting.

"Good evening Father," a man's cultured voice replied serenely as though admonishing Juliano for his abruptness. "I was hoping we would speak soon."

"I think you know why I'm calling," Juliano said through gritted teeth, ordering his tone to be calm and unconcerned.

He could almost hear the smile in the other man's voice as he replied, "I anticipate it is to discuss the offer I made you."

"No." Juliano hesitated for a split second, trying to form the statement in a manner that would give little away. "I would like to talk about Amon's whereabouts."

"Amon?" The voice lingered over it as though tasting it for the first time. "That would be the surly young Hunter from Japan, would it not?"

Juliano resisted the urge to beat the phone receiver against his desk. "Yes, the Hunter your team brought back from Tokyo. The one your team shot."

"Ah." A pause. "I was wondering about his whereabouts myself, Father. Funniest thing – it seems that while my team brought him here for questioning, you intervened and took him into your custody, voiding my jurisdiction in the matter." The voice showed every inflection of affability, but Juliano wasn't fooled. There was ice under those words, and a threat.

"My reason for calling," Juliano explained with calmness he didn't feel, "is that this evening the Hunter in question was taken from my custody. I would like to know where he is."

"Hmmm, that is troubling," came the reply with a mock seriousness that only belied the glee the man was feeling. "Who would dare usurp your authority in such a manner?"

Juliano glowered. "Who indeed." The pause assured the Master Hunter that the point was taken.

"Well Father, you can rest assured that I will deploy my strike team immediately and give you all assistance in finding your Hunter. After all, cooperation between our departments is crucial, don't you agree?"

This was subterfuge and they both knew it. Juliano, however, was forced to play along. "My thanks. I would like to meet with you as well."

"Concerning this matter or our earlier conversation?"

"I consider them linked," Juliano clarified. "I suspect we will speak of many things."

"Very well." The voice was thoughtful now. "Is tomorrow afternoon too late? I'm afraid I have obligations this evening, and I preside over Mass in the morning."

Juliano wanted to reach through the phone and throttle the smug expression right off the man's face. He could hear it in his voice, almost smell the satisfaction of having the Premier Master Hunter of Solomon backed into a corner. He wanted to order the Inquisitor to a meeting by right of his superior authority. He knew that in this case he could do none of those things.

"Very well Koushon," Juliano replied with an internal sigh. "Tomorrow then." He replaced the receiver slowly and allowed his head to fall forward into his hands.

* * *

The setting sun had taken all the warmth of the day with it, and Amon shoved his chilled fingers into his pockets as he walked. He was navigating in circles, backtracking and weaving, looking to see if he was being followed. And he was, every instinct confirmed it. He didn't dare look over his shoulder to try and spot his pursuer – not yet anyway - if he made eye contact the game would accelerate and Amon didn't want to risk the innocent bystanders enjoying Rome's nightlife. Instead he threaded amongst them, trying to blend into his surroundings and confuse his unwelcome tail.

As he rounded a corner onto yet another street he glanced from the corner of his eye. Blond hair, black coat, about ten yards behind him.

Amon put on a burst of speed while in the man's blind spot and ducked into a small restaurant. The maitre de tried to stop him, but was waved on when Amon hurriedly indicated that he was seeking the payphone. However when he reached it he kept going, slipping through the kitchen door and passing confused cooks and waiters, several of whom loudly indicated to him that patrons were not allowed in back. Past the dishwashing station he hurried, through the storeroom and out the back delivery door into an alley lit only by a single naked bulb above the door he had just used. He moved out of the yellow pool of light and immersed himself into the shadows, turning up the collar of his black jacket to mask the white skin of his face.

He waited, scarcely breathing, every nerve and every sense reaching out into the night for signs of pursuit. His breath escaped as small puffs of steam in the rapidly cooling air, and the chill was descending into his shoulder wound with an ache that tingled into his clenched fingers.

It should have worked. But then, Amon decided, it was no average Hunter following him. As he stood motionless in the alley's darkness, the tall, blond haired man passed on the sidewalk at the end of the alley. Nearly passed. Just as he was about to move out of sight he stopped mid-stride, the pale head cocked to one side. He stood that way for several interminable moments. And then slowly his head turned and Amon felt the icy winter eyes lock onto his dark form. The pale Hunter's colorless lips curled into a sardonic smile, a motion that implied more hurt than humor. And then he stepped from the light of the street into the dark twilight of the alley.

Amon felt the unpleasant shock of recognition, knew the approaching man even before he called out, "Glad to see you're feeling better, Amon."

Without an answer, Amon pushed away from the wall he'd been standing beside and strode to the center of the narrow passageway.

Now the two Hunters stood face to face, only several insignificant yards separating them. "Ivan Grieg," Amon hissed, hopelessly wishing he had some sort of weapon, anything other than his bare hands.

The other man's grin widened and he nodded. "I see you remember me," Ivan said lightly, crossing his arms and shifting his weight casually to one leg. "That's good. I'd be hurt if you didn't."

"I remember you threatening me," Amon growled, all the while feeling as though he had just swallowed a very large rock. _Trouble,_ Amon's instincts were shouting at him, _I'm in serious trouble._

Ivan's casual pose dissolved and his eyes glinted cold fire. "And I made good on it, didn't I?"

It took a couple of moments, but the realization, when he came to it, doubled the feeling of considerable danger. "You're the one who shot me." He stated it, already sure of the answer.

Ivan nodded and took a threatening step forward. "I make good on my threats, chum, and when you _purposefully_ bungled the second Hunt for your partner I gave you fair warning on how we deal with traitors."

"And yet here I am," Amon declared, going on the offensive. He shook his head with mock disappointment. "Your aim's for shit, Grieg."

Ivan bristled at the remark, but didn't take the bait entirely. "It's true, a gun is not my first choice of weapon." Amon noticed him flex and straighten his fingers.

Amon redirected before Ivan could continue that train of thought. He had heard of Grieg's Craft, and knew there was no protecting himself if the Hunter chose to use it. "So is that why we're standing here?" Amon called out. "Because I stopped you and your team from Hunting Robin?"

"No Amon, we're standing here because you're a bigger fool than you look." Ivan laughed at his own private joke while Amon sought for disciplined calm, utter detachment.

"I was a fool to participate in your Hunt at all," Amon agreed, drying up Grieg's mirth.

"No, you're a fool because you just walked out on the only person powerful enough to save you." Ivan took another step forward. "You should have stayed in Juliano's custody, Amon," he admonished in a mocking stage whisper. "He'd have been much nicer to you than my boss will be."

Now Amon felt the world drop out from under him and return again in a brief second. Father Juliano had been protecting him from Inquisitor Koushon. His brain put the pieces together with merciless speed. Koushon's team, the group responsible for the assaults on Robin and the attack on the STNJ had taken custody of him after taking control of Tokyo headquarters. They brought him back here to put him under the Inquisition, probably trial for sedition, failure to follow orders, and God knew what else. Juliano had stepped in on his behalf and was shielding him from punishment.

Amon could scarcely hold his mask of detachment in place. His heart roared in his ears. His indignation at lack of answers and his self-assurance in his limited understanding of the situation had led him to abandon his only ally on the whole damned continent. God, he really was a fool.

Still, if Amon had any hope of making it out of this refuse-strewn alley, Ivan needed to be distracted, if even for a moment. "Inquisitor Koushon has no authority in this matter," Amon stated with imaginary confidence. "I'm not a witch. I report to Juliano no matter what the circumstances, being as how I am a Hunter."

Ivan grinned. "Amon, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and simply assume you're _playing_ dumb as opposed to embodying it. We both know that witch inquiry is only a small part of the Department of Inquisition's duties."

Amon nodded in agreement. "Sure, the larger part is wreaking general havoc like brain dead thugs." In truth Amon was perfectly aware of the various duties of Inquisition, it's chief concern being the internal investigative force of Solomon.

The grimace on Ivan's face told Amon his jab had hit a nerve. "I could trade insults with you all night, chum, but I have orders from Koushon." He took another step, closing the distance between the two Hunters. "You're coming with me."

Amon stood his ground, planting his feet and taking his hands from his pockets. "I don't think so."

Ivan was not the easily intimidated sort, and he seemed amused at Amon's stand of defiance. "Oh I think you are," he replied, flexing his fingers again. "I don't think you had a chance to see my Craft in Japan." His look had morphed from mirth to menace. "Perhaps I should show you now."

Grieg lifted his left fist and Amon saw what seemed like static electricity shimmer between his closed fingers before Ivan released a wave of energy at the bulb shining on Amon's right. It shone with searing brightness for an instant before imploding with a pop and tinkling glass spray.

So he had heard right. Grieg was, in fact, one of the few Agents in Solomon with this unique ability. Electrokinesis – the ability to produce and control electricity. Amon didn't even flinch at this display, but his mind was racing wildly, trying to discern any possible way to fight this Craft user.

And then everything stilled within him, the honed discipline of a Hunter taking over completely. He didn't have to fight Grieg. He just had to distract and disarm him long enough to get past him. Once on the street, Ivan wouldn't dare use his Craft with all the spectators present, thus evening the playing field.

Amon clapped and bowed, and caught a glimpse of Ivan's fury through the deepened gloom. "Congratulations," Amon taunted with the air of mock amazement. "You broke a bulb. Do you take requests? Can you do fireworks?"

He could feel the rage emanating from the pale Hunter. "You want fireworks?" Grieg spat, clasping his hands together before him. "How about this?"

And with that he turned toward the only outlet of the alley and extended both his hands, issuing a sizzling surge of power that smelt of ozone. The transformer on the street lamp nearest them exploded with a thunderclap, raining down sparks and sending fire sizzling down the electrical lines attached to it.

* * *

Morgan was hurrying as fast as her damned shoes would allow, keeping her head down to avoid the distraction of so many emitting minds around her. She was looking for a particular presence, never easy under these circumstances, hindered even more by the tight control Amon kept on his conscious thoughts.

She felt the tang of fear, but couldn't be certain if it was her own or someone else's.

Without looking where she was going, Morgan soon felt completely turned around. She didn't dare distract herself with sight, however, only wishing harder that she could navigate the uneven pavement with her eyes fully closed. Or a giant antenna strapped to the top of her head that would tune her into Amon's brain. That would be nice too.

Suddenly the breath burst painfully from her lungs and she staggered to one side, one hand clutching her pounding forehead. Male arms encircled her and kept her on her feet, which she brushed away with her free hand.

"Hey, a thank you is nicer, pretty lady!" the man's voice called drunkenly after her, but she paid no notice. The pain had passed, and she rushed blindly forward. A psychic burst had nearly knocked her down and she didn't intend to lose the trail now. It was leading her forward, around the corner, forward again.

Without warning the vice gripped her head again and she stopped cold. Words were echoing through her mind, and panic. _Trouble, I'm in serious trouble._

"Amon," she realized aloud, cupping her face in her hands to block out any distractions. "Keep talking," she breathed, "keep talking."

For a moment there was nothing but confusion and she thought she had lost the connection, but then a thought emerged that made the hairs rise on her arms. _You're the one who shot me._

"Son of a _bitch_!" Morgan choked, dropping her hands and rushing forward again. The connection was solid now; she sensed Amon's nearing presence like a beacon of white light. She had to get to him. She knew where he was, and knew now who he was with.

_I can't fight him,_ the ominous echo played in Morgan's mind as she hurried. _His Craft…I helped her… Robin._ The last was said loudly and Morgan winced, accompanied by the brief flash of a recognized face with jewel green eyes. This was visual telekinesis, and Morgan knew she was close.

_I'm a fool… Koushon… Juliano…I can't believe I did that,_ the words continued. "Nearly there," Morgan gasped, well beyond cursing her stupid shoes. "Hang on Amon."

Suddenly the connection died and with it her forward momentum. "Oh shit," she hissed, casting out wildly with her mind, trying to catch any hint at all of Amon's broadcasted thoughts.

But a terrific explosion erupted not even twenty feet from where she was standing, sending fire snaking down the electrical lines overhead and plunging an entire city block into darkness. Bystanders cried out in shock and alarm but Morgan drew her gun instead.

* * *

The alley went dead dark and Amon made his move. Arrogantly, Ivan had turned his back to him to perform this display of power, and his mind was engaged in the undertaking. On silent feet Amon closed the distance and Ivan turned back just in time to receive the heel of Amon's hand into the bridge of his nose. A loud crack issued forth and Ivan screamed as black blood erupted from his face. Amon followed this up with a sweeping kick to the shins, bringing Ivan down hard on the concrete and positioning him just right for the roundhouse Amon administered to the back of Ivan's head, sending him down on his already broken nose.

Taking no time to admire his hand to hand skills, Amon took off down the alley, knowing that if he was conscious Grieg was probably already peeling himself off the pavement.

He had just cleared the opening to the street and was turning left when he heard a woman's voice shout, "Amon! Stop!"

Amon swung around directly into the barrel of a gun. Morgan's tall silhouette was recognizable even in the almost complete darkness. "No," Amon groaned, "Morgan, get out of here. _Run_."

"Amon, where is he?" Morgan shouted. "Where is Grieg?"

"_Damnit_ Morgan, run!" Amon wanted to take his own suggestion, but wasn't about to leave her in the path of a very pissed off electrokinetic. He reached out his hand. "Come on!"

But another hand clasped her instead, from behind her as it snaked around her throat. Another clamped her around her waist as Ivan's mangled face came into view over her shoulder. "Embarrassing yourself as always, Morgan," he taunted in a voice thick with his own blood. "Some telepath you are, can't even tell when a person's sneaking up on you."

Amon felt all hope draining away. Ivan had Morgan in a chokehold tight against his own body and had disarmed her easily. Even in darkness he could see Ivan's triumphant smile.

"Let her go," Amon warned, "she's not the one you're after."

"Maybe not," Ivan agreed, "but I can still have a little fun, can't I?" He released the arm from her waist and turned his hand palm up before her abdomen, webbing his fingers in snaking blue electric currents that snapped evilly. The light emitted illuminated Morgan's terrified expression as she clawed at the forearm choking her.

She managed to pry it lose just long enough to scream, "Amon, he can't kill you! He has orders not to hurt you! Run!" She shrieked the last word as Ivan connected his electrically charged hand directly to her bare thigh, and the shriek became a sob of pain.

"I might be under orders not to hurt you," Ivan called to Amon, "but there's _nothing_ stopping me from killing _her_." He paused just long enough for Amon to think this over, the silence punctuated by Morgan's choked sobbing. "You run now and she dies. Right here. Right now."

"_No_ Amon, _go_. Please go," Morgan rasped between painful breaths.

Amon was nailed to the ground, unable to force a breath into his lungs. The urge to run was still coursing in his legs and pounding in his ears, but his eyes were glued to Morgan's. Brown eyes… _green eyes, looking up at him with trust and respect as he led her into the warehouse where the imagined witch was supposedly hiding. He was escorting her to her execution and yet she could look at him in such a way… He could scarcely make his mouth form the necessary words, his throat was so tight with carefully suppressed despair. It was breaking him, he felt the splinters, he was betraying her, sending her to death and she looked at him with those eyes. He knew, even as he beckoned Robin inside, those eyes would haunt him until the day he died._

No. Not again. Never again. Amon let his breath out slowly, painfully. "Don't hurt her," he said, locking Ivan's gaze in his own. "I'll come with you. Just let her go."

Bright lights washed over the three of them briefly as a car raced down the street and screamed to a halt beside them.

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost your 'Knight in Shining Armor' complex," Ivan mocked him as he gestured to the open back door. "After you."

But even as Amon approached the car, a man exited the passenger door and took Morgan from Ivan, dragging her forward and forcing her unceremoniously into the back seat.

Amon turned on Ivan. "That wasn't the agreement," he growled menacingly.

Ivan backed him toward the car. "I agreed to nothing," he pointed out, using his sleeve to mop up the blood still spilling from his nose. "And she's still alive. And you agreed to come with me. So get in."

Every muscle twitched to finish the job he had started on Ivan, but Amon was outnumbered and trapped. Momentarily without options, Amon slid into the car and the door slammed shut behind him.

* * *

_**Author's Note**: Please indulge me while I take a moment to thank all the wonderful folks who've reviewed the story so far!_

**Jaunt**_: All I can say is thank you! It makes me so happy that you like it, you make me blush! And I absolutely agree with your assessment of Morgan. She pretty much wrote herself, and I love her for it. Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and I hope you continue to enjoy the story._

**Sparky 16**_: I just love Amon's antics, and I love finding new and unusual ways for him to get into and out of trouble. It's a safe bet that he will continue to amuse us. Thanks for continuing to read the story, and thanks for the great reviews!_

**Tiramisu of Impending Doom**_: First of all, I love your name! Second, I agree that most people do a post series story. I'm tempted to myself, but I figure there are too many good ones out there to justify my feeble attempt. So instead I get to play with the various misadventures of Amon! I join you in your glomping. We love Amon._

**Tsukikage Arashi**_: Yeah, that line really was the motivating subtext behind that whole chapter for me and I'm glad you liked it. Thank you!_

**Angel 452**_: Patience, patience. I know I'm long winded but I swear to you we will get to the hunting of Robin. All questions will be answered by the end (though God only knows when that will be :-). Thank you for the review!_

**Moonlit Eclipses**_: You flatter me (blush)! I'm glad you're willing to give my little story a try. Thank you for reviewing._


	6. Deal with the Devil

**Chapter 6: Deal with the Devil**

He was alone, finally. While he knew only hours had passed since he had been brought to this cold, featureless room, it could have been days for all he knew. It _felt_ like it had been days. But then, slow torture through electrocution will do that.

Amon was tied to a metal chair by his wrists and ankles, and since Ivan and his thugs had left him he had let his chin sink to his chest, fighting to control the pain that seemed to emanate from everywhere. The only sound he could hear was his own raspy, shallow breath.

Thoughts and emotions were choking each other as they gathered thick in his head. His captors wanted information. He felt his endurance flicker light a bulb ready to burn out. He must hang on, must find more somehow, for _her_ sake…

- - - - -

"It is in your best interest that you tell us everything you know," the Inquisitor had said, leaning in close to Amon's ear. "It will go much better for you."

When Amon remained resolutely silent, Koushon had looked to Ivan who was leaning against the drab wall. "I don't think my agent likes you very much," he observed in the same quiet voice. Ivan had smiled at that. "If you don't tell him everything you know about Zaizen and his projects, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let him do what he wants with you."

Amon had looked resolutely forward, making no sign of even hearing the white haired man with the immaculate gloves and black cassock.

Koushon slowly circled behind Amon and then leaned in to whisper into the other ear. "But I also want to know everything you know, or anything you may have heard about your partner, Robin Sena." Koushon finished his circle and took Amon roughly by the chin, forcing him to make eye contact. "Including why you disobeyed orders to Hunt her."

At the mention of her name, Amon could not keep eye contact with the old priest, though he tried to cover it. Koushon was not fooled. "Ah, I see you have something for us."

"Go to hell," Amon whispered, which only made the Inquisitor smile.

- - - - -

And now, after hours of Ivan's rough brand of questioning, Amon was looking for the strength to remain silent. In the end what he knew of Zaizen and the orbo project was pitifully small, so there really wasn't much to tell. His administrator had not been the type to share his plans, and Amon was perfectly satisfied with that arrangement.

However Robin… Amon grimaced. He mustn't tell them anything. He wouldn't. He had made the mistake of helping these men before. There wouldn't be a second time. Not even if it meant his life.

His head snapped up as the wooden door opened, revealing Ivan, who had used the interlude to see to the facial wounds inflicted by Amon. He sauntered in, closing the door behind him. He stopped before Amon, hands hanging benignly at his sides. "So," he said, "do you have anything to tell me?"

Amon let the moment stretch before looking up from under his eyebrows to his torturer. "Yes," he said softly. "I'm glad I had the opportunity to improve your face." And then he spat on Ivan's black boot.

The mirth left Grieg's face. "I'm so glad you said that," he hissed, flexing his fingers.

* * *

He had thought it was so clever – a stroke of genius, in fact.

- - - - -

Kate was dead, her blood figuratively on Zaizen's hands but certainly not on his conscience. After all, she had threatened to expose him, expose the orbo research to Solomon Headquarters. She had been a spy, Zaizen was sure of it. And he was not above killing to keep his secret or attain his goals. After all, people had already died for it. She was simply one more unfortunate casualty.

And now Solomon was sending a 'replacement.' A replacement what? Zaizen had mused. Not a Hunter, as they insisted was the case. No, he concluded, they were merely sending another spy. Kate must have succeeded at least in part, since rumors began to ooze forth; an investigation into Zaizen's 'Factory' and 'humane hunts' was underway. Somehow word had gotten back to Solomon, but Zaizen intended to put a stop to it.

So he went to his protector from on high, the Solomon Superior in his pocket. Father Juliano had resisted him, argued, threatened, but in the end had acquiesced. No Hunter would be sent to Japan to take Kate's position, Zaizen had insisted, unless he was allowed to name the Hunter.

He chose Robin Sena.

It was genius, and Zaizen congratulated himself on his victory. His team would get the Hunter it needed to function, and he would have Juliano's dirty little secret in the palm of his hand as insurance of the Father's good behavior. For Juliano was the only other person besides Zaizen himself who knew the secret of the orbo research, and only Zaizen's knowledge of Robin's relation to him had kept the Premier Master Hunter silent. Juliano wouldn't dare play him false, Zaizen had reasoned, not with his granddaughter's life at stake.

But as time passed, strange occurrences began to raise the warning flag in the Administrator's mind. Somehow the investigation into the Factory was still going on, and now Zaizen's regional bosses had gotten wind of it, sending them into a frenzy of fear and blame. He found his head hovering near the chopping block, and all despite his very clever safeguard.

It would seem, he reasoned, that Juliano was indeed capable of gambling with Robin's life. The only explanation was that Robin was the spy leaking orbo information to Italy. The only explanation.

And so Zaizen decided it was time to retaliate.

It hadn't taken too much investigating to discover that Juliano was not universally supported amongst the upper echelon of Solomon. He had been the Premier Master Hunter and Hunter Trainer of Solomon for the greater part of two decades, but now his powers were declining and the years of hard service were taking their toll. A call had begun to circulate among the bigwigs that it was time for Juliano to step down. A little more digging had revealed the author of this declaration, an elderly gentleman whose aspirations to greatness and willingness to play dirty warmed Zaizen's heart.

Inquisitor Koushon was his name, head of the Department of Inquisition, subsequently making him in charge of the dreaded investigation Zaizen was trying to bury.

'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,' Zaizen thought happily.

Even as Zaizen became aware of all this juicy backbiting, an event occurred that seemed to be sent as a gift from God himself. Robin went missing. As if that weren't enough, it appeared that she was in league with a group of witches in the Walled City, some of whom hacked the STNJ database to send her messages. She was up to something, that was obvious, and that something most assuredly had something to do with Juliano.

This was confirmation to Zaizen of his fears, and now he knew just what to do to rid himself not only of the spy in his midst, but of the Master Hunter who thought he could play the Administrator for a fool. He called for an Inquisition of Robin Sena.

Koushon arrived under the guise of Inquisiting a potential Hunter, but this was only cover for his real purpose – a meeting with Zaizen based on the Administrator's promise that it would be well worth the trouble.

Zaizen proposed that a deal be struck between them that would benefit both.

Koushon would have Robin Hunted as a Witch, thereby eliminating a leak and wounding Juliano in one fell swoop. He would also cease the investigation into the Factory and the orbo research.

In return Zaizen would deliver to him a secret so powerful that it would utterly destroy Juliano and rob him of his position, leaving it open for the ambitious Koushon.

- - - - -

But genius had turned to madness, and the pieces were falling apart despite the cleverness in which Zaizen had put them together.

He held the phone pressed to his ear, the Inquisitor's words ringing like a demonic gong. "I'm afraid if you cannot offer any solid written evidence of Juliano's daughter and granddaughter and his connection to them, I will have to withdraw from our agreement." The words had the ring of smug victory and the echo of death all in one sentence.

"No," Zaizen choked, resisting the urge to yell it. "I told you, I will find it, I know it's there, it's just that Juliano must have gotten rather clever at burying information." Too damned clever by half, really. Zaizen had been frantically searching for any of the signs that had led him to the dark truth fifteen years ago, and had come up with nothing.

"I have faith in your investigative skills," Koushon assured him with patronizing murmur of a practiced lie. " But surely you must see that hearsay and the supposed testimony of a dead scientist will not be convincing enough to unseat Juliano. It will all seem like scandalous gossip."

There was a pause, and Zaizen imagined the Inquisitor raising a drink in toast to his own ingenious deviousness. "Until I have it in writing, you must understand that I cannot interfere with the investigation pending on your organization. And I cannot Hunt Robin."

_In other words_, Zaizen thought bitterly as he hung up the phone, _you took all and gave nothing._ He had been outplayed, he was just now seeing it, and the sour gall of the realization threatened to gag him.

He had made a deal with the Devil, and the Devil had won. His eyes stared off into space, seeing nothing but his own ruin.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to stain the sky outside like watercolors diffusing on a wet page, but inside the church night still reigned and only an army of candles kept the dark at bay. Juliano sat on the hard wooden pew with his hands resting on his knees. His mind was still, having come to a decision at last. Now he only waited for the arrival of Father Adrian.

He felt the presence of the other Hunter in the huge cold space before he caught movement in his peripheral vision as Adrian seated himself on the pew beside him. Juliano looked steadfastly at the altar before him, studying the candlelight playing over the crucifix as he spoke.

"It has begun," his words echoed though he spoke softly, giving them the depth of prophecy. "Koushon has held the upper hand long enough."

The Hunter beside him remained still as was his habit, and Juliano still did not look his way but instead balled his hands into fists. "Too long have I labored in indecision. I have allowed him to control me, as I allowed Zaizen for fifteen impossible years."

"Koushon has taken Amon," Juliano said, allowing the words greater volume as though to punctuate the point. "He is undoubtedly trying to get information from him to use against me." He swallowed. "He is trying to bring me down at last."

And now he turned, directing his next words to his fellow Hunter. "Adrian, he has Morgan."

Even a Hunter so trained to aloofness as Father Adrian could not help but flinch at the implication of those words, and Adrian did just that, even turning his nearly colorless eyes to his superior with concern and a spark of fear.

"We must rescue them both from whatever Koushon has in store for them," Juliano said firmly, "and I need your help." His green eyes stared his companion down. "Adrian, are you ready for a Hunt?"

Adrian needed no words, the look in his eyes was enough. Still, he nodded his head, and Juliano clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Then we begin."

The two men rose, Adrian turning to leave immediately. Juliano, however, paused a moment and considered the crucified man before him. _I finally do your will Lord, after all this time_, Juliano thought fervently to the face of the sculptured Jesus. _I will end what I began all those years ago_. His eyes hardened. _May I forgive myself_.

He crossed himself sharply and turned for the door, and at a single thought every candle extinguished as though by an invisible hand.

* * *

Koushon couldn't help but lean his forehead into his hand as he held the receiver to his ear with the other. He had not slept at all during the very eventful night that was even now visible on the horizon, and he was of an age where an all night escapade did not come without its price.

He understood perfectly, however, the words he was hearing. "So I am to understand that you have been doing your best all night but you have not been able to get him to say even a single word?"

The silence on the line crackled with suppressed anger from both ends. "That is correct," Ivan finally conceded, though not without a hint of resentment. "But sir, he has to break soon, if you give me even just two more hours –"

Koushon put the flat of his hand on the desk before him with a sharp sound he knew Ivan could detect. "No, Grieg, he does _not_ have to break! You have consistently underestimated this man to your misfortune on several occasions, and I must intervene now to save you from your own stupidity!"

He paused and took a breath to calm himself. Insulting one of his best agents was not going to further the Inquisition any faster. This pigheaded Hunter was proving to be made of sterner stuff than expected, the man who held information not only about his boss Zaizen, but about Juliano's granddaughter as well. Amon was the lynchpin to the plan, a gift that had fallen into his lap unexpectedly. With the information this young man undoubtedly possessed, Koushon could bring down Zaizen's blasphemous organization _and_ destroy the man whose position he most coveted. Amon _must_ talk.

After a moment of collection, Koushon spoke again. "And Juliano's agent hasn't spoken either?"

There was a pause that made the Inquisitor's full white eyebrows raise. "No, she hasn't."

"You have been dealing with her?"

"Of course. No result."

Koushon could not suppress a sigh. "Damn it, that girl is not a trained Hunter as Amon is. She has no combat experience. How is it she's holding up under torture?" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She is of little concern to us."

He heard the doorbell sound from within his residence and Koushon's instincts prickled ominously. Whoever was paying him an early morning visit was most assuredly someone he did not want to deal with right now. "Leave him for the moment," Koushon hurriedly instructed his agent. "I will think on the problem. Wait until I call before continuing."

He had just replaced the receiver when the door to his study burst open, revealing the flowing black robes and wild white hair of Juliano who strode unrepentantly into the room, Koushon's butler trailing anxiously in his wake.

The Inquisitor waved the servant away, rising to his feet to greet his unwelcome guest. "Juliano, this is unexpected. I thought we had agreed to a meeting at –"

"I decided not to wait," Juliano replied succinctly, the words carrying the unmistakable ring of authority.

Koushon eyed the man carefully. This was not the same man who had sat hopelessly before him, trying not to beg as Koushon had triumphantly laid charges at his feet. No, the man standing before him now was the Premier Master Hunter of Solomon, and his aura seemed to fill the entire room. This did not bode well.

"Won't you sit?" Koushon asked graciously, indicating a chair before the desk.

"This won't take long," the Master Hunter replied. Koushon had begun to sit on the assumption that Juliano would do the same, but now rose again, unwilling to have to look up to this powerful man.

"Some weeks ago, you came to me with a proposition," Juliano began, making each word sharp like a whip crack. "You claimed to have information that would be damning to me, and offered the option of my resignation in exchange for your silence."

Koushon opened his mouth to speak, but Juliano raised a hand. "You also took it upon yourself to try to eliminate one of my Hunters, the same Hunter whom you implicated in your evidence of my misconduct."

His eyes were glued to the Inquisitor's, with no hint of emotion. "It is true – she must be Hunted. She is much too powerful now that she possesses the Arcanum of the Craft. However, it is my duty to perform Hunts in the name of this organization." He weighted his next words to ensure unmistakable meaning. "I am _still_ and will _continue_ to be the Premier Master Hunter of Solomon, and _I_ will carry it out."

This declaration made Koushon feel every lacking moment of the sleep he had lost the night before, and he resisted the urge to sit. "Father Juliano," he argued, the hint of threat to his voice, "surely you do not want the blood of your granddaughter on your hands?"

The words did not have the effect he had intended. Rather than subduing the Master Hunter, they instead did the reverse. Juliano placed his hands on the desk, leaning in menacingly to come face to face with the Inquisitor. "I _dare_ you to prove," he said in a deadly whisper, "that Robin Sena is anything to me at all."

Koushon steeled himself, refusing to take a step back. "I hardly think I would come to you with these allegations if I did not possess proof."

Juliano shook his head. "I know what proof you think you have and let me assure you – you will get no information from Zaizen."

He turned in a flowing of robes and headed for the door, but Koushon found his voice. "I don't need Zaizen. I have other evidence."

For an insane moment, the Inquisitor sincerely believed that Juliano would unleash a torrent of flames that would consume him where he stood. However he did not, only lifting a finger and pointing ominously at Koushon. "Prove it."

Even before the door closed, Koushon had the phone in hand.

* * *

Across the street, two pairs of eyes followed Inquisitor Koushon as he quickly exited his residence and slipped into the waiting car. After a moment it pulled away from the curb and into the sluggish flow of traffic.

_So he took the bait_, the Master Hunter thought triumphantly. Juliano turned on the screen embedded in the dashboard of his own sedan, and the picture popped up to indicate a map with a blinking dot moving across it.

"Follow him," he instructed to Adrian, who nodded and started the engine.

* * *

_Author's Note: I promise to all you Amon fans out there, the next chapter is entirely him. (drools.) Not in the 'Full Monty' sense; not 'all' Amon (twitters at the thought), but it will be all his POV. As always, read and review folks! Thanks!_


	7. Weapon of the Enemy

**Chapter 7: The Weapon of the Enemy**

Amon's hands had long since gone numb, along with his feet. The bindings were too tight to begin with, but struggling had only made the nylon cord cut into his skin, sending hot drops of blood lazily sliding down his fingers to splash one at a time onto the cement floor. The abrasions burned, but not half as badly as the points where Ivan had laid his fingers on him. Those marks were like contact burns from a lit cigar, and radiated outward to form large areas of tingling and burning.

Water; Amon would have paid any price at that moment for a drink of water. His eyelids felt like sandpaper across eyeballs that were parched, matching his tongue. The electric currents that had passed through him had taken all the moisture from his body and now he felt positively shriveled, like dry autumn leaves scraping across concrete in a cold wind only to be trampled underfoot into a fine dust.

Time was a conflicting matter of interest to him – on the one hand it had no coherent meaning, yet it was vitally important. To know how long he had been in this dank cell of a room would link him to reality and utterly dishearten him all in one easy stroke. There was one reality Amon knew now, and that was pain, confusion, and fear. He was afraid; he could admit it now that he was alone once again. He had the convenient knack of channeling negative emotions like confusion, frustration, or fear into a show of anger for others to misinterpret, and so often he lost contact with the truth behind the seething fury as well.

It didn't change anything, though. He was afraid. He was afraid for Morgan, who he hadn't seen or heard from since being brought here. God only knew what fate she was suffering right now. He was afraid for himself. Because of his foolishness he had left the protection of the only person who could have spared him from this torment. He feared for himself, though he didn't know what scared him more – that these men would kill him through torture or that he would break and tell them what they wanted to know, assuming he knew what that was in the first place.

And he was afraid for Robin. The longer he sat here the more he realized how intrinsically the young Hunter was tied to all this confusing mess. It had been her appearance, after all, that had set Amon's course to this moment. From the beginning Zaizen had shown an unhealthy interest in her, and had set Amon as his spy to keep track of her. He had even instituted the services of his daughter Touko to keep watch over Robin. Koushon had entered the picture when Robin had gone missing in the Walled City and defeated Methuselah, and it was he who had instigated a covert and unsanctioned Hunt for her. Amon had participated because he had been ordered to, ignoring the wrongness that he felt to his very bones in order to be the professional, consummate Hunter everyone expected him to be.

So what had turned him in his tracks? Juliano's letter to Robin. As he had read that cryptic, heartfelt confession he began to realize just how deep this situation might go. Robin's Hunt was not as simple as the circumstances that had been explained to him. She was not crazy. She was not a witch. No, there was something more. And for Juliano, the Premier Master Hunter of Solomon to write such personal, loving words to one of his Hunters? No, the pieces just didn't fit.

The thought of the letter only reminded him of the lack of it. He had taken the letter from the ruined apartment Robin had shared with Zaizen's daughter after the second failed Hunt. However, when he awoke in the hospital there was no sign of it. When Morgan had given him clothing she hadn't included any personal effects. Amon stared down at his bare chest, pocked with burn marks. The absence of the orbo pendant's reassuring weight around his neck was another missing personal item. He could imagine Koushon commandeering it as evidence of Zaizen's activities. But without that small glass vial of orbo against his skin he had no control over the re-awakening of his Craft, save for his own will. But his will was pitifully abused and ragged right at the moment, and he imagined he could feel the dragon stirring, threatening to open its eyes and unfurl its wings.

This contemplation was interrupted by a sound that at first Amon misinterpreted as an auditory hallucination of his fears. A female voice was heard, cursing and shouting, and footsteps, the sound of a struggle. It came from beyond the battered wooden door, and Amon's muscles flexed involuntarily which renewed the sharp cut of the cords into his skin.

The door opened inward with a bang, revealing two nameless men dragging Morgan into the room. She was putting up a fight and flinging curses like darts, but she was no match for the combined strength of these men. Following her came Ivan, who was frowning at the struggle preceding him. He looked preoccupied, or so Amon thought, without the arrogant swagger that usually marked his movements. Entering lastly was Inquisitor Koushon, with wild eyes but every hair smoothly in place.

The two man handling Morgan produced a chair similar to Amon's and tied her to it, though she struggled admirably. She emanated rage, but when Amon caught her eye for an instant he recognized the terror. So she too could channel such feelings into a show of fury. For some reason this realization only deepened his dread.

He looked to his captors. Inquisitor Koushon was observing the struggle with an air of dignified bemusement, as one would watch a child reach for an object hopelessly beyond their reach. Ivan however was standing with arms crossed, glowering at the floor.

Once Morgan was secured and her opponents sent off to treat the bites and kicks she had inflicted upon them, Koushon spoke, and his first words were directed to Amon. "You are really quite extraordinary, young man, I will admit it. Despite extreme physical discomfort that would break an ordinary Hunter, you have steadfastly remained silent." He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. "I applaud your strength."

"However," he continued, stepping toward Morgan whose eyes were boring into him like poison daggers, "I cannot allow you to remain silent any longer. I must have the information you possess." He stood ominously over Morgan, looking over his shoulder to Amon. "This is the last time I will ask."

"And if I have no information?" Amon rasped, the words grinding in his throat like chalk.

"Then you will have to watch her die," Koushon stated, turning from both Hunters and gesturing to Ivan. "Get on with it."

Amon felt the icy rush of adrenaline surge through his body. His eyes sprang to the woman tied beside him and he found her looking back, fear and despair making her chocolate eyes nearly black. "No," he choked, struggling in vain with his bindings.

"Don't tell them anything," Morgan whispered harshly. "Amon, promise me. Whatever they do to me, don't let me into your mind." A glistening tear slid down her cheek and clung to her quivering chin before dropping. "No matter what, Amon."

And now Amon truly understood what Koushon's intentions were. They knew that torture would not force words from his throat. But they also knew that Amon would have a much more difficult time watching someone else receive the torture in his place. And perhaps they even hoped that in his panic he would open his brain to the mind reader through his alarmed empathy toward her, enabling her to divulge his thoughts to save her own life. Amon felt the room lurch with the realization. How could he watch this happen and yet do nothing? How could he not?

Ivan, despite Koushon's order, had not uncrossed his arms or moved from his previous position, and his boss looked to him sternly. "I said get on with it." Ivan's frown deepened, and he looked from beneath his brows at Amon. "Now!" the Inquisitor's voice rang out.

Amon watched as Ivan finally stepped toward Morgan, balling his fists and releasing them several times. Amon couldn't breathe; it felt like the room had been filled with a whirlpool of ice water and he was being sucked irrevocably downwards into a cold hell. What was he to do? What _could_ he do?

_He had a choice. He could go on standing here in this bullet riddled apartment. He could go and do some absurdly mundane activity as though the world weren't ending at a prescribed time. Or he could turn and leave and go rescue Robin. He had already disobeyed orders – the dye was cast. But he had also been guaranteed a traitor's death by the head of the strike team if he interfered. His breath stilled time to a single moment. Well, he already was a traitor._

His voice was paralyzed; his mouth frozen into a wordless grimace as he watched Ivan's hands descend in slow motion toward Morgan's body, the electric currents snapping and reaching out eagerly for her skin. Her eyes were glued to Amon's, refusing to look at her tormentor, instead resolutely locking Amon's gunmetal eyes to her face to exact a wordless promise. He didn't witness when the first contact was made, but he knew it occurred when her eyes widened and her pupils contracted to pinpoints of excruciating pain.

They were pleading eyes, shock and pain transforming them into accusatory orbs that sent Amon's mind into a frenzy. Pupils contracting to dots, widening to the whites in unnatural openness, like another pair of eyes…

"_Amon!" A woman screamed, an unmistakable voice regardless of how many years had passed. He had stood there then, rooted to the ground. The gun had fired from the man wearing black, all black, even the gun was black, the day was black, the air that stuck like tar to his lungs was now painted in the same absence of color. All but the blood that spilled from her chest, opening like a flower and spilling crimson liquid on the ground, that oozed over her fingers as she clasped her hand to the wound with those eyes that were contracted to the same pinpoint pupils. Mother…_

He knew Morgan's pain; knew the acceleration of the senses focusing from Ivan's fingertips outward to encase the entire body into a swirling cacophony of hot, searing agony. He could feel it himself, so fresh was the sensation in his mind. Yet the room was a vacuum of silence, or was it only that his ears had ceased to function? It was eerie, and Amon wanted to cry out on her behalf but his vocal cords were paralyzed with horror at the sight of electricity passing through the woman, her eyes rolling white back into her head, her back arching unwillingly away from the straight back of the chair under the influence of the current on her nervous system.

He felt a sudden pressure in his head, something like a probing finger trying to pry open a small hole. He knew it was Morgan; the pain was somehow closer now. But he remembered her words to him, remembered the possibility of her unwillingly reading his mind. _I can't bear it_, his inner voice wailed, _how can I sit here and watch her die_? _But what is she to you_? The logical part of his mind pointed out coldly.

_He couldn't completely guarantee the neutrality of his countenance and so he looked over Zaizen's head and sought to quiet the angry squabbling of voices fighting it out in his mind. "Koushon's strike team will handle the actual Hunt," his administrator was saying in a tone that rung hollow to his ear, "they only require that you set up the circumstances and guarantee Robin is there." Amon couldn't even force himself to nod in reply. Robin was being Hunted as a witch. They were going to kill her, and they were asking him to help. No, not asking. They were ordering him to. He couldn't say no, not without giving reasons he didn't even have himself. And even then it would make no difference. With or without him they would Hunt her. And the thought had flung itself directly into the path of his conscious mind in that moment: How can I sit here and watch her die? And then the reliably trained mind replied, but what is she to you?_

Morgan's breath burst from her in a great wrench and a deep guttural moan began to reverberate from somewhere deep inside her, a resonance Amon could feel in the marrow of his bones. The single probing finger had become a scrabbling hand with very healthy fingernails, scraping and reaching for purchase on the outer casing of his brain. She was fighting it, Amon sensed, she was trying to hold it back – the Craft, her screams, everything. But she was losing. She would burn brightly, inhumanly bright for this endless stretch of seconds, and then Amon knew that light would burst and die like an imploding bulb. She was losing…

"_Mother!" the young Amon had screamed and he raced to her just before her legs folded and she fell. His adolescent body staggered under the weight but he kept her from hitting the ground. Cradled in his thin arms, his mother looked up into the face of her son, her vision already impeded by the death that was claiming her. His mother's blood seeped over his hands, hot as the tears that drowned his face. "Why?" he had implored to her, "Why did you try to save me?" Her lips opened and tried to form a reply, but a wracking cough erupted from her and blood spilled from her mouth._

Blood erupted from Morgan's mouth in a wracking convulsion. "_No!_" the memory and the man shouted simultaneously.

"_Mother_!" Morgan gurgled wetly around the blood still dripping from her lips, and Amon, in his utterly manic frame of mind was uncertain whether she was imploring on her own behalf or reading his mind.

Sweat was pouring from Ivan's pale brow and his eyes were pained. "Say something you stupid son of a bitch!" he spat in Amon's direction. "For Christ's sake!"

The voice of the Inquisitor was close to his ear. "Start talking and I tell Ivan to stop," Koushon wheedled with greasy insincerity. "All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

Amon's chest was locked like a vice grip. To talk, to save Morgan's life was to kill Robin. He couldn't do it, he couldn't help these men. But in this moment he could scarcely differentiate between Robin and the woman screaming in agony. Mother, Robin, Morgan, who was who anymore? Morgan was a human being, just as Robin was, just as his mother had been. How could he remain silent and kill her? How could he speak and sentence Robin to death? Robin – who meant so much that he had to deny it, whose life was so valuable to him that he had forfeited his own on her behalf.

But they were all dead anyway. It was only a matter of time. Even to talk would mean his death. They would Hunt Robin with or without his help. Morgan would die too. Everyone was a shade in the world of the living. What did it matter?

It mattered. Painfully, hopelessly mattered.

"What's stopping you?" Koushon interrogated more loudly. "Is it stubbornness? Is it honor?" His words hit home with the next strike. "Or is it to spare the life of your partner?"

Morgan's moaning had turned to something scarcely human, bubbling, shuddering monosyllabic nonsense. Ivan was looking desperate and crazed. "For fuck's sake you asshole, I shot your little girlfriend, all right? I killed the bitch and loved every second of it. Now _talk_! Do it!"

And the entire world constricted in that moment to the impossibly slow, impossibly loud heartbeat in Amon's ears.

Robin was dead.

No.

But Ivan had said it.

No.

Morgan was dying.

No.

All this was for nothing… she was already gone… all of them gone…

"_NO_!" Amon roared this at a volume capable of physical destruction, and his body filled with a howling that swirled everything else away. A roaring like a cyclone, the power of a hurricane gathering strength from the heaving ocean threatened to tear him to fragments. The room became a vacuum and the breath was sucked from his lips as every ounce of air in the room gathered to him and coalesced into the funnel that had replaced the core of himself.

It was effortless, an almost overwhelming relief to release the energy and so he did, lifting Ivan from the floor and sending him rocketing into the wall. He was on his feet with no recollection of having escaped his bindings, and he turned now to the author of this evil scene. The power, having released, had regrouped at double the speed and so he sent the next burst at Inquisitor Koushon.

And it erupted with a flash directly before the old man. He tried again, focusing his will to surgical precision. And again, it exploded harmlessly before Koushon.

The priest smiled and reached for the collar of his robes. "Borrowing from your book I'm afraid," he said with a maliciously crooked smirk as he hooked his finger around a cord and pulled. A glass vial appeared, iridescent green liquid boiling within it. "Yes, it's yours," he confirmed with a nod. "I had the sneaking suspicion I should keep it close in this situation. And I was right."

Ivan was knocked out on the floor with the pulverized wall crumbling down to partially conceal him. Morgan's chair had toppled and she lay on her side still tied to it and completely motionless. And Amon stood in a tower of uncontrollable rage before the old Inquisitor, the power of his newly reawakened Craft whipping his very soul into shredded shards. The old man reached slowly into his pocket and a pistol emerged, Amon's orbo pistol which was now trained on its owner.

"Hypocrite," Amon spat at the priest, scarcely hearing his own words through the howling wind of his internalized Craft.

Koushon smiled. "When battling evil, one must sometimes employ the weapon of the enemy." His eyes swept over the destruction and back to Amon. "As well you know. After all, Solomon was founded on it."

"The only evil here," Amon hissed, "is you."

"But you are the enemy," was Koushon's simple reply, and his wizened finger squeezed the trigger.

And then several things happened at once.

Amon shielded himself with his Craft, deflecting the orbo bullet before it could hit his chest.

The door exploded from its hinges, revealing the towering silhouette of Father Juliano in the gaping hole, Father Adrian at his shoulder.

The ground rocked alarmingly.

The world went black.

And then all Amon could see was a wall of flame.

* * *

_Author's Note: So as promised, all Amon, and our boy is kicking ass! However, you'll just have to wait until next chapter to see how everyone else fared. Hee hee! Hope you enjoyed it, please read and review! Thanks!_


	8. Broken Oaths, Twisted Loyalties

**Chapter 8: Broken Oaths, Twisted Loyalties**

Amon stared out over the choppy grey water, waves that matched the cold grey of his eyes. His gaze settled on nothing, so lost in thought was he. The windy seascape passed by, but his mind saw only that dank room awash in flames…

- - - - -

He had blocked an orbo bullet without even knowing how he had done it. But even as he did the door had exploded off its hinges and the large and angry silhouettes of Juliano and Adrian came into view. The light had died then, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to come alive. And then fire erupted and filled the room with light and heat beyond anything he had experienced.

His next memory was of Juliano's face hovering above him, urging him to get up. He had done so on wobbly legs as the Master Hunter went to kneel over another figure sprawled on the floor. His head felt hollow and scoured from the inside, and he fought to comprehend the scene surrounding him. A look over his shoulder brought it all back. Father Adrian was on the floor with yet another casualty, a sight that made Amon's blood run cold.

The old man was cradling a woman's body in his arms, pressing her to his chest tightly, and unvoiced anguish carved his features into quiet despair. Amon moved towards them hesitantly, feeling like an intruder to a private moment as he knelt beside the old Hunter. Adrian acknowledged his presence then, turning eyes to him so full of suffering that Amon nearly cringed back. Instead he reached out and brushed the hair from Morgan's face, revealing dark blood streaked on chalk white skin. Her eyes were closed.

Adrian was rocking slightly, shallow intakes of breath replacing the howls and tears he was forbidden to give voice to. "I'm sorry," Amon whispered to the man, who gave no indication of having heard him. Adrian laid Morgan's body back on the cement, staring at her still face, raising a hand to cover his mouth.

Amon looked at her sleeping countenance. She was dead, and he had let her die. More innocent blood on his hands. He had followed her last wishes, but that thought brought no consolation whatsoever. Instead he felt as though he had utterly betrayed her. Though he knew it was futile to apologize to her now, he still felt compelled to lean over her and bring his parched lips close to her ear. "Morgan, I'm sorry," he whispered to her, letting his eyes close to better reign in the emotions that were choking him.

And then he froze, his eyes popping open in surprise.

His long black hair had ruffled almost imperceptively, and he held his breath, waiting. Just when he thought it had been his imagination it occurred again, a puff of air that moved his hair ever so slightly. Springing to action, he reached for a pulse. And there it was, though erratic at best and very faint.

Morgan was alive.

- - - - -

The clouds overhead were a solid ceiling of grey and the strong wind whipped his hair mercilessly across his face. He pushed it aside for the thousandth time, leaning against the cold railing of the ship as it ploughed through heavy seas. Winter was fast approaching, and bringing with it inhospitable sailing weather on a current the locals called Scirocco; a strong, sometimes gale force wind that pounded the coast of Italy from October to May. Currently it was lashing his body, and he wrestled his long black coat which flapped madly.

He snuck a glance from the corner of his eye to the figures sheltering on a bench in the lee of the cabin wall – a much bundled Morgan and a very protective Adrian close beside her. He sat with her now as he had sat with her then, when the intensive care doctors had merely shrugged when asked what her chances of survival were.

- - - - -

"It's impossible to say with any certainty," the doctor had told them wearily, fresh from the surgery to repair Morgan's internal damage. "She is stable at the moment, but the real test will be if she regains consciousness."

And so Adrian had waited patiently at her bedside, impervious to suggestions of rest or food. Amon had not been able to sit still and so he had wandered the hospital after a cursory inspection of his own wounds. He had allowed them to bandage the lacerations to his wrists and forearms, but pushed them impatiently away when they sought to treat him further.

Juliano had taken him then to a safe house set up for his use, leaving him there with the order to rest and to stay put. Stay he did, but he couldn't rest. There were too many puzzle pieces in his mind, and the sharp edges were poking him. He found a convenient glass and bottle of scotch in a cupboard and set the table with them, deciding to medicate his mind with something antiseptic somewhere in the ballpark of eighty proof.

Above all else was the haunting feeling of the waking dragon in his blood, the power he had sought to suppress for ten long years. He had used his Craft, and in doing so had broken an oath to himself.

On the day his mother died, his world had sunk into darkness that deepened with every passing breath. His Air Craft had been the cause of her death. If he hadn't possessed that unnatural power then the STNJ wouldn't have come to collect him. If he hadn't been in danger then his mother's power wouldn't have awakened, sentencing her to death.

His mother's Craft… The terrible realization had shaped the young boy into the hardened man he was today. His demonic gift had not been a fluke as he had always supposed. She had given it to him through her witch's blood. He would never forgive her for it – for giving him the blood that would forever separate him into a world of darkness. He would never forgive her for dying because of it. He would never forgive himself for letting it happen. For being the cause. For hating the blood in his veins that cursed him. And he had sworn on that day he would never again give in to the dangerous power that allowed him to control the very air around him.

They had given a choice to the frightened boy ten years ago – Hunt or be Hunted. And even though his self loathing had made him recklessly consider ending it all in that moment, he had chosen to Hunt. Other people possessed this curse. It was his duty to eliminate them all. And the final enticement to that end had been the strong figure of Zaizen, promising the grief stricken teenager that he would help him repress his Craft in exchange for loyal service. The deal was made. Amon learned to Hunt.

And then in that terrible room he had let loose the monster of his nightmares.

Amon longed to break the glass he held and drag the jagged edge over his wrists to let the damned beast out forever, to free his mother's cursed blood from him once and for all. To join her… Amon let his face fall into his hands, allowing grief to play across his face in the safety of solitude. He could hate her with every breath and still long to see her again. He could eliminate one witch after another and still see his own face. Tears had died for him ten years ago, but the dry ache still burned in his throat. The damned killing the damned.

He poured himself another drink.

- - - - -

Amon turned his face to the wind to wipe the memory away, letting the salty spray scour his unprotected skin. Behind him the two Solomon agents were silent, but Amon knew the lack of speech didn't indicate lack of conversation. For all he knew Morgan and Adrian were talking about him through Morgan's telepathic Craft, and the thought stiffened his spine somewhat. No, more likely Morgan was staring at the damp boards of the deck, trying to block out the thoughts of everyone around her. When she had awakened from her surgery they had discovered an increase of her Craft, as though the volume in her head was set much too high. Now, instead of searching for a connection, Morgan had to fight to block it out. The strain of a Craft so powerful was taking its toll on the young woman, both physically and mentally. Struggling with a Craft – _that_ at least Amon could understand.

- - - - -

Once it was clear that Morgan would live, Juliano called Adrian and Amon to him. It had been several days since the incident, days that blurred together in Amon's mind. He had been left rattling around the safe house, his tormented mind his only company. While he was wary of the purpose for this meeting, he was equally grateful to be thinking of something beside the unanswered questions that plagued him. He was taken to Juliano's residence, and the Master Hunter received them in the private sculpture garden situated behind his home.

The three Hunters sat on comfortable chairs beneath the splotchy shade of a large tree, as though avoiding the watery sunlight of the late fall day. Away from the sun's warmth the breeze had a bite to it, and Amon shrugged his coat a little higher on his shoulders.

After the polite offers of refreshment had been rejected, Juliano got down to business. "We need to look ahead," he said with a look to both Hunters before him. "The situation is volatile, and while I have been asserting my influence in what areas I can, there are still unresolved issues."

_That's putting it mildly_, Amon thought sarcastically to himself. Rather than speak it, he said instead, "What has become of Koushon and Ivan?"

Juliano nodded gravely. "A good question," he confirmed. "Both were injured in the incident, though Koushon was largely protected by the orbo." The mention of the heretical green liquid made the Master Hunter scowl, and the look was mirrored by Father Adrian. "Ivan was injured much more grievously, though he will live I am told."

"That's too bad," Amon grumbled, which produced a wry smile from Juliano.

"You have much cause to hold a grudge, Amon," Juliano conceded, "but rest assured that Ivan got as good as he gave. Let revenge rest for now."

Amon opened his mouth to protest, but Juliano continued speaking. "Believe me, they will be dealt with. Leave it to me. Koushon will answer for his actions, as will Ivan, as will Zaizen."

The young Hunter's thoughts of revenge were interrupted by the mention of his boss. "Zaizen?"

The Father now rested the considerable weight of his gaze on Amon. "Yes, and that brings me to a very important matter which we must discuss. Zaizen is the administrator of the STNJ, and thereby you have worked for him. But what I need to know from you, Amon, is where your loyalty will lay in the future."

Amon's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Juliano studied Amon gravely. "Well you already know that it was Zaizen who called Koushon to Japan." Amon confirmed this with a nod. "They are working together, or at least they were, to defy Solomon." The Master Hunter's lip curled somewhat. "It seems that the friendship was fickle. Still, Zaizen continues to stand in opposition to Solomon and he will answer for his actions, make no mistake." His words held the gravity in his eyes. "Zaizen will not be in power much longer."

A moment passed in silence, and Amon let this sink in. Zaizen was going down. Zaizen, the man who had originally helped Amon suppress his power and given him a purpose in his empty life was going to fall. However, this was the same man who had ordered him to perform cold blooded acts against his own co-workers, all for the sake of his precious orbo. He had been the man to order the Hunt for Robin. Amon's frown deepened. He had sacrificed his own daughter for Robin's Hunt. It wasn't too difficult to believe that the man had a larger, darker objective than simply administrating the STNJ.

Juliano was still looking to the dark Hunter. "What I am asking, Amon, is this – are you loyal to Solomon, or to Zaizen?"

Loyalty. The word stuck in his mind and he turned it over like a pebble in his hand. He had pledged his loyalty to Zaizen, and that meant something to him. However, to be sworn to a dishonest or unmoral man was to reflect that upon one's own soul. And in that moment Juliano's words to Robin in his undelivered letter danced before Amon's eyes. To wield power as Juliano did and yet still have depth of feeling such as was displayed in that note was telling of the man's character, at least in Amon's opinion.

And while he had sworn loyalty to Zaizen, he now no longer knew to what purpose his actions would be used. He had answered to the man, but he still believed in the ideals upon which Solomon operated – A witch must always be Hunted. There was only one glaring exception to this rule in Amon's mind, and he batted it away. Robin was _not_ a witch, no matter what Zaizen said.

He looked up at the Master Hunter, his charcoal eyes resolute. "I am loyal to Solomon."

Juliano and Adrian both smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," the Premier Master Hunter replied. "And I have your first assignment. In the name of Solomon, I am sending you to a facility to train your Craft."

The blood rushed out of Amon's face. "What?"

The look now in Juliano's eyes was shrewd. "I will not have a Hunter in my employ who does not have control of his Craft."

Amon could not hold the Master's gaze to tell the lie. "I have no Craft."

Adrian was looking warily between the two men, but Juliano's good temper seemed to be holding. "You are foolish if you think I don't know your history," the man said quietly. "Even if I did not, however, one look to the destruction in that room would tell me. I saw Ivan's injuries." The tone was soft, but his eyes were hard. "Your Craft has returned."

Amon wasn't ready to give up his pretense. "You mean awakened."

Juliano sighed, a sign that his patience was waning. "No, I did not misspeak. _Returned_."

The word felt like a punch to the stomach, and the air refused to enter his lungs. "How can you know that?" Amon choked.

"In your short time here you must have realized that Solomon is an organization that feeds itself on secrets," Juliano said cryptically. "And there is not a single Hunter in my program whom I don't know everything about." Juliano sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "It could even be said that I know more about you than you do yourself."

"I doubt it," Amon growled, his unease funneling into anger.

Juliano was unthreatened. "Doubt me if you like," he said lightly, "but I know that your Craft first awakened more than ten years ago, and I know that you have suppressed it with the power of the orbo." Amon's hands clenched into fists. Juliano continued. "But understand me now – to work for Solomon as a Hunter is to work for me. And I will not have a Hunter who is untrained in their Craft. You _will_ master it."

Amon's rush of emotions lifted him to his feet. "And if I refuse?"

At Amon's movement Adrian had stood as well, taking a protective step toward his master. Juliano waved him aside and looked calmly at the fuming young man before him. "Then you should understand the consequences of that refusal. To deny your power will destroy you. I do not doubt your strength of will, I am merely stating fact. And what I offer is help, help so that you can control your Craft. Don't run from the inevitable, Amon."

This raised Amon's hackles as Juliano doubtlessly intended. "I run from nothing."

"Good. Then train your Craft."

Amon stood his ground and shook his head stubbornly. Juliano's light handed approach had ended along with his patience, and it reflected in the lines of his stern face. "Could it be," he questioned with baited breath, "that you're simply afraid? That without Zaizen's heretical orbo to hide behind you are a man who cowers from his very nature?"

The heat of Amon's anger was fanned by the strong wind which suddenly erupted beneath the tree, lashing the three men and toppling Amon's empty chair. Adrian's eyes narrowed as they looked around, but Juliano's never left Amon's face. "You disappoint me, Amon," he intoned sadly. "You give your loyalty in one breath only to disobey with another? I thought more of you."

This statement bit at Amon's principled psyche, calming the winds somewhat. "I am a man of this organization, I meant what I said." His fists clenched tighter.

"Then obey me now." Juliano slowly rose to his feet, meeting Amon eye to eye. "Because defying Solomon has its consequences as well, and I don't need to tell you what those consequences are."

No, he didn't need to say it. To defy Solomon meant elimination. Amon's gaze did not waver, but he knew the rush of cold fear in his limbs was not without merit. Juliano could incinerate him where he stood with a single thought.

But to use his Craft when he had sworn not to… Amon felt his world restricting to tunnel vision. He had made an oath to himself as well. Did that not meaning something too? Yet Juliano's words had been true. Now that he could no longer repress his Craft, he stood upon the possibility of being destroyed by his own unfocused power. So his real choice was whether to become the uncontrolled menace he had spent his life Hunting or harness his curse in order to rid the world of that same menace.

He felt deflated, the howling wind that had filled him leaked away and he bowed his head deferentially. "I will obey," he whispered.

Juliano stepped forward and put a firm hand on Amon's shoulder. "You've made the right decision," the Father replied in a paternal, confidential tone. "You have strength, and your skills as a Hunter are already extraordinary. What I am proposing to you is an enhancement of those skills, along with a great honor."

He stepped back and resumed the authority of his office. "Amon, you will be sent to the Monte della Fortezza, the Cala Maestra, secret home of the Master Hunter training facility."

- - - - -

The Mountain of Fortitude, the Teacher's Cove. Amon remembered the surprise he felt mirrored in Father Adrian's widened eyes. The secret facility was foggy legend that Solomon agents whispered about over drinks in hushed voices. Most people within the organization were dubious that the place even existed. One thing was certain – individuals that were chosen to the Master program disappeared, sometimes for years, only to return as lithe and efficient killing machines unrivalled by any man made weapon.

One could not apply to the Master Hunter program. One was chosen. And apparently, Juliano had chosen Amon. An honor, as Juliano had said. A terrifying honor.

At least he was not going alone. Morgan and Adrian were with him, and this had been at Juliano's order as well. Morgan's newly enhanced Craft was destroying her, and it was the Father's opinion that the Cala Maestra would be the perfect place for her to recover and gain control. Adrian had insisted on joining her, though he was no stranger to their destination. He was a Master Hunter himself.

And so the three of them had flown from Rome to the island of Elba, one of seven islands of the Tuscan Archipelago in the Tyrrhenian Sea. From the port of Elba they had reported to the sleek, massive cutter that would complete the final leg of the journey. Setting to sea in foul weather, their trip had been uncomfortable at best. Amon's face felt numb from the wind and spray, and behind him Morgan miserably huddled even lower on her bench. But Adrian stood up, joining Amon at the rail and pointing a silent finger to the horizon.

Amon followed his gesture. Land had appeared as though rising from the ocean, a granite tooth jutting from the waves, looking as formidable as Amon had imagined it. Even at a distance and through a ghostly haze he could see mountains rising from the sharp cliffs of its coast with the dark shadow of trees sporadically covering the bare rock. Just off the coast a lighthouse was perched tenaciously on a rocky outcropping, and its light winked and pierced the gloom.

He looked upon the island, stronghold of the Solomon Master program. Legend and literature had pushed the island into the realm of fiction or fantasy for most, and its masters did nothing to dissuade the myth. Owned by Italian aristocracy from time immemorial, it had been the private hunting ground of kings. Hermits and monks had been the first to step upon its shores, and built a monastery there. Today it was strictly off limits to the world, labeled as a 'natural preserve.' No human was allowed within a mile of its coast, and to step foot upon it without retribution meant to possess a special permit from the Italian state, a grant as rare as summer snow. Most citizens of the world were unaware of its actual existence outside the stories, and none were allowed upon it. Yet here it was, a formidable citadel of secrecy. It seemed somehow fitting that this place was Solomon's fortress.

Amon looked upon the island and whispered the name the world knew it by. Montecristo. Mountain of Christ.

* * *

_Author's Note: Yeah, that's right, I said Montecristo. And now you're thinking, "How can Amon visit a sandwich?" Or, "Viking Princess is now shamelessly cribbing off Dumas!" Well, the _Count of Montecristo_ is a kick ass book, but I've found the real island to be much more intriguing. The information as I have relayed it to you is recorded fact. No one is allowed on this remote island, an interesting find that sparked my curiosity. So with a little creative license the island now belongs to Solomon. Meaningless factoid number two million and eight. :-)_

_And of course a gigantic thank you to my wonderful reviewers! It is great motivation to continue the story when I know there are at least a few people who are enjoying reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you! _


	9. The First Day

_Author's Note: My sincere apologies for the delay in posting this chapter, but unfortunately life sometimes gets in the way of writing the fanfiction. Frustrating, but true. Anyways, thanks to the reviewers who are so sweet and wonderful, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Hopefully the next will be posted with more haste!_

**Chapter 9: The First Day**

The boat bobbed laboriously through the waves, circling the island to reach the only accessible port. As they passed Amon could see the stark cliffs of the coast, pinkish grey granite that had been tortured by wind and sea into strange designs and shapes that emanated menace. Up close the island seemed even more forbidding than it had at a distance, the rocky, mountainous terrain looking uninhabited and thoroughly windswept.

Adrian stood at the cold steel railing and studied the landscape with him, but Morgan seemed disinclined to look. She hadn't moved from her seat and kept her eyes downcast, occasionally closing them firmly as though to clear her vision of the boards under her feet. Amon didn't know how she felt about being sent to this place, how she felt about her newly heightened power, how she felt in general. She had been as silent as her mute guardian since they'd embarked on their journey to the island. He had noted that she moved with a slight hunch that indicated internal pain, but that was to be expected. It had not been long since the incident in that terrible room. He would ask how she felt but he knew somehow that she would not thank him for reminding her of any of it. So he remained silent too, though it pricked his conscious a little to see her hurt and unhappy, such a different person than the vivacious woman he had met not so long ago.

But then, he felt as though he were a different person too. It felt like ages ago since he had been brought, wounded himself, to Italy for reasons that he didn't understand. He still didn't have the answers to his questions, queries that bred like rabbits in spring, but he felt that to come to this island was a step toward the answers. He just hoped he was right.

As they entered the small bay named Cala Maestra and drifted toward the pier, Amon spied a figure exiting a black jeep and striding out onto the wooden gangway. The ship's horn sounded, bringing the deck hands out from below to prepare to dock the vessel. The three Solomon agents didn't move, allowing the men to work around them. The light of the day was nearly gone and the north facing cove was blanketed in near darkness. Amon had expected buildings, lights of some kind, but there were none. _Of course_, Amon thought after consideration. _To outside eyes this island is deserted_. But this raised the question of where the Solomon training facility was hidden, a ponderance that peaked Amon's curiosity.

Deckhands were throwing lines to shadowy figures who had appeared on the dock when the horn had sounded, and the shadow men were guiding them into place along the pier. The massive churning engine was cut, and the resulting quiet buzzed in Amon's ears. That sound had been constant for such a long time that the absence of it was disorienting. Now water could be heard slapping against the hull and the pilings of the pier, and gulls screamed overhead at the intrusion of humans in their territory. Rapid fire Italian was also being slung between the sailors and dock workers as the gangplank was positioned for disembarking. Adrian caught his attention with a light touch to his sleeve, indicating that they should do so now. Then he left Amon to collect Morgan, helping her to her feet and threading her arm around his like a loving grandfather with his favorite grandchild.

The figure Amon had seen exiting the jeep was awaiting them at the bottom of the gangplank. He was tall and slender with sandy blond hair and dark eyes, and was wearing a long black coat, another victim to Solomon fashion or so it seemed. The man's first order of business was to bow his head deferentially to Father Adrian, who nodded curtly in return. "Welcome back, Master," the man spoke in a pleasant mellow tone, only then allowing his dark eyes to fall upon the young woman beside the old man. "This is Agent Excelior?" he asked politely. Again the Father nodded. "We are pleased to have her with us," the man said with courtesy. His pleasant voice, Amon noted, was well trained to be entirely without accent, and he had chosen English to converse in, no doubt to put Morgan more at ease. It didn't seem to matter, though. She had not lifted her eyes or in any way acknowledged the man or his words.

If he was offset by her lack of response, he made no sign. He turned to Amon and bowed. "And welcome to you, Amon," he greeted in flawless Japanese, the sound of which made Amon startle slightly. He had not heard another speak in his native language since the day of the attack at headquarters, and no sound could have been more welcome to his ears.

"I thank you," he replied softly with a bow of greeting.

"My name is Peter Wildling," the man told him, "and I teach languages here at the island. Of course just now I am sent to bring you to the Villa." He smiled a charming smile. "But let me say to all of you," he said, changing to flowing Italian, "Welcome to Montecristo."

* * *

Peter had taken them in the Jeep up a dark and unpaved track into the hills of the island, following the lay of the land into a large wooded valley protected on all sides by the steep mountainous terrain. In the darkness it was difficult to make out many other characteristics of the landscape, but the large lit building that had appeared before them was obvious. It was a monastery more in the make of a villa as even its name implied – Villa Reale. It was exceptionally large and just as exceptionally old, built in the comfortably decadent style of Italian manor houses. Its chief difference from any other monastery in Tuscany was that it was built from the very rock of the island, dense gray granite that lent it just a touch of menace.

Their linguistic guide had explained to them that the other inhabitants of Villa Reale, teacher and student alike, were all gathered together in the hall for dinner. When none of the travelers seemed inclined to food, Peter showed them to their rooms which indeed leaned toward the monastic. Small and bare, the private rooms boasted only a bed, chest, and writing desk, along with the obligatory crucifix on the wall. Being disinterested in creature comforts, Amon was not daunted by the spare ness of the accommodations, only glad that he was not being asked to share with a roommate. He was however in the male student's wing, and Morgan was ushered to the female corridor. Adrian of course would accommodate himself with the other Masters.

And as the hours ticked by Amon laid upon the thin mattress of his bed and listened to the wind howling in the eaves, pretending to sleep in an effort to induce it. It wasn't working and Amon stared out the small window to the clouds riding the strong wind. Every now and then a break would form and the deep ebony of the night sky would appear with stars that hung lusciously close to earth in this remote place. The moon would shine for that brief time and the light would shine onto his bare skin with a cold brilliance that only made his mood darker. For when the light disappeared again the darkness would rush in from all sides and in that darkness specters of long lost residents prowled. This place had a distinct sense of history, the stones themselves felt infused with it, the very air tainted by it. The history was as cold as the wind outside, as the moonlight, as the flat of a blade pressed against flesh. Just as dangerous.

It was nonsense, and Amon was thoroughly disgusted by his overactive imagination. Yet he hesitated to close his eyes all the same, and when he did he found himself holding his breath as though listening for the voices belonging to the echoes of the past. Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and cloudless, a stark contrast to the stormy day before, and Amon found himself being led by Father Peter into a large and brightly lit hall that served as the gathering place for breakfast. Sunlight poured through the large windows that afforded a view of the oaks and gardens surrounding the villa.

Peter walked with him past long tables with young people gathered around them, the youngest looking around twelve years old and the eldest perhaps twenty. In all there were roughly fifty students. At a separate table sat the Masters, almost entirely male and ranging in age from mid years to elderly, and Amon saw Adrian seated amongst them. It was to this table Peter led him and they sat together. "It is unusual for a student to sit with the Masters," Peter explained in his affable way, "but for you I think an exception could be made. After all, you're no untried apprentice. Besides, I should like to talk with you before you're too busy."

"Here at the villa you'll see that there are varying levels of students," he explained between sips of espresso. "The youngest are in white, and they are first level. They are studying an accelerated course of class work that includes languages, history, geography, mathematics, and the like. They are also trained in forms of combat, weapons – all other physical studies associated with being an effective Hunter."

Amon nodded understanding and Peter continued. "After that are the first level apprentices, and they are wearing the light gray." Amon scanned the hall and found a young man wearing a long tunic shirt with matching trousers. "At this point their training becomes more specific and they are paired with a Master who shares their Craft. The study moves to the mastering of their skills. Above that are the second level apprentices, who wear charcoal gray." Peter gestured loosely toward a table full of older students, all wearing the identical dark color. "At this level the apprentices begin to accompany their Masters on actual Hunts for Solomon in order to gain experience in live combat."

Amon looked pointedly down at the black shirt and pants he had worn since Rome. Peter noticed the scrutiny and smiled. "Yes, you'll be allowed to dress in your own clothes. To be honest you're an odd exception to the rule and we were hesitant in categorizing you at all. You see, most of these students were brought here around the age of thirteen and have been on the island for several years. None have been employed by Solomon as Hunters as you have been. So you see you have far more experience than they when it comes to Hunting." He gave Amon a shrewd look. "And if gossip can be considered fact then you are only lacking Craft technique to earn the rank of Master."

"So what training do you have in mind for me?" Amon questioned gravely.

Peter frowned at this. "Father Juliano has instructed that you receive private tutelage in your Craft, so your interaction with the apprentices will be limited. But he insisted on a specific Master who is away on assignment. He has been sent for, and is in route as we speak. But unfortunately your tutelage will not begin today."

Even as Peter said this, Amon's attention was completely stolen by movement at one of the tables. A teenage girl had risen from her seat and was leaving the hall, and Amon's eyes were wide. The dress she wore – he knew it as though it had been seared into his brain. It was the distinctive dress Robin always wore. The girl wearing it now bore no resemblance to his partner at all, and yet Amon could see Robin standing before him, her jewel green eyes piercing past his mask to the shadowed core of himself. A quick glance around the hall found every female student wearing the same style of dress in various shades of gray.

Peter had noticed his distraction and was staring at him curiously. "Peter," Amon said quietly, "Did you know a girl named Robin Sena?"

The young Father's face lit happily. "You know Robin?" he asked incredulously. "She was a very special student of ours here."

"Yes, I know her," he confirmed quietly. "She was in the Master program?"

"Oh yes," Peter gushed, setting down his toast and dusting the crumbs from his fingers. "She was the youngest student ever sent to the island."

"How young?"

"Why, when she was sent to us, she was only eight years old," Peter remembered after a moment of recollection. "And she awakened even before that, or so I suppose. She lived in a convent on the mainland before she was sent to us. She reached second level apprenticeship by the age of ten, a remarkable feat that has never been duplicated. Even now she is only fifteen years old!"

Amon would never imagine himself to be even the least bit sympathetic or sentimental, yet he felt a twist of pity for such a young child to be sent to such a forlorn and remote place. To live one's formative years in a place like this, schooled to be the ultimate killer… Amon's hands squeezed the thought away as they curled into fists. He would not think of this now. He could afford no distraction at the moment, and her face in his mind was the last thing he needed. Yet he couldn't stop himself from seeing her thin silhouette rise from the table nearest him as the other girl had done, turning her eyes to him, the light of the morning shining onto her strawberry kissed blond hair…

Peter was speaking and Amon physically shook the memory away with a toss of his head. "Sorry?" he asked.

Peter began again. "There is someone I would like you to meet; he will serve as your guide today and better acquaint you with our facility and lead you through your first day." Peter beckoned with a flip of his hand and a tall thin adolescent appeared, dressed in the dark gray of a second level apprentice. "This is William," Peter introduced the blond haired boy to the Hunter. "He will see you through today, as I have classes to teach. I will see you for the evening meal, however."

As they rose, Amon stopped Peter with a question. "Father," he asked, "where is the other agent that was brought here with me? Agent Excelior?"

Peter nodded gravely. "It is the decision of the Masters that she be in seclusion for a time," he intoned in a lowered voice that indicated confidences. "Just until she gains control of her Craft. She is quite volatile at the moment, not only to others but to herself as well. When she is feeling more in control she will rejoin us."

Amon wanted to ask more but he refrained, and with a friendly wave Father Peter left the table, collected a small herd of white robed students, and ushered them from the hall. Amon turned now to the teen who was standing silently before him. At closer inspection Amon ascertained that William was probably about eighteen, thin but well muscled, and had eyes that had been schooled to the Solomon art of still watchfulness.

William stood silently before him, and Amon realized the younger man was waiting to be addressed before speaking. "Well," Amon said, uncertain how to proceed with the young apprentice. "Can you give me a tour of this place?"

"Of course sir," he replied, turning smartly and indicating Amon to join him.

"Call me Amon," Amon said impulsively, matching stride with the young man as they left the large hall. William glanced at him uncertainly, but Amon could feel some of the stiff formality easing away.

The two men toured the villa and Amon found that it contained the sleeping quarters of every person living on the island, a large sitting room and library, kitchens, and a well tended garden surrounding the building. Once they had finished this, William led him back to the library and stood before a large set of double doors. "This upper Villa is simply where we sleep and eat," he explained to Amon. Then he indicated the doors before them. "The remainder of the facility is below ground."

Past the massive doors a tunnel appeared to be carved out of the granite of the island, leading downward as though into the very depths of the earth. Dim electric sconces lit the passage and doors led off from the main corridor they were walking. William paused occasionally to allow Amon to see inside these offshoot rooms which more often than not proved to be computer workstations, multimedia centers, classrooms of various subjects and purposes, or else empty and dark.

As they walked William explained how the underground fortress came into being. "The whole island is riddled with caves and tunnels, and after the original monastery was destroyed by pirates in the fifteenth century, the monks began excavating the caves to build an underground fortress that would be invisible to the eyes of the world. Solomon continued this, and for hundreds of years workers have mined the island to create a whole other world down here."

Their steps led them at last to an immense circular chamber that could well have been in the very heart of the island. Pillars were placed evenly following the curve of the walls to support the weight of the domed rock overhead which soared to dim and dizzy heights above them. Unlike the electric light that had guided their way before now, the huge chamber was illuminated only by torchlight – by bracketed torches on the walls and huge hanging dishes of flame. There was a collection of grey toned individuals collected near the center of the room and William led Amon toward the group.

The students and Masters present had formed into a ring around two level two apprentices who were facing each other silently. Amon looked quizzically to his guide who explained in a whisper. "In the level two apprenticeships we master the art of combat. Some of this is through accompanying our Master on his missions, and some is through dueling."

"Dueling?" Amon echoed in an incredulous whisper. It had never occurred to him that a person would practice their Craft by using it upon another, however able the other may be. It seemed dangerous and reckless, like playing with a loaded gun. There was a sense of anticipation in the onlookers, and Amon felt his heart accelerate.

Two boys slightly younger than William were facing each other with inscrutable faces and they bowed formally to one another without breaking eye contact. With that the group took a collective step back and the match began.

Amon couldn't tell who struck first, it was so fast. What he could see was that both boys had sent an attack and each had blocked, sending light flashing into the center of the circle. There was a pause as the boys circled along the edge of the onlookers, sizing up the situation. Then one boy raised his hand and a jet of flame erupted across the circle. _So this one has the Craft of fire as well_, Amon thought. _Just like Robin_. However he could see that this pale skinned boy did not possess nearly as much power as his partner. His attacks were easily deflected again and again by the other boy, though Amon could not see quite how the other was doing it. He didn't seem to be actively attacking his opponent. Still the boys circled, and the eyes of the onlookers sparkled expectantly.

The pale fire Craft user suddenly stopped as though rooted to the spot, and Amon watched as his sallow face lost all expression, as his eyes emptied of any emotion. The other boy was opposite the circle and he stood at ease, staring his fellow apprentice down. And then slowly the dark haired opponent closed the distance, striding slowly and purposefully toward his fellow student who amazingly was showing no signs of movement or retaliation. In fact there was no evidence the boy was conscious at all except for his open and staring eyes. The dark haired boy stopped just before the fire Craft user and without looking from the other's eyes drew a dagger from his waistband. Amon took an involuntary step forward as though to intervene but William put a restraining hand on his arm. "Wait," was his only explanation.

The dark boy had raised the dagger and now positioned it against the throat of the pale fire user, just below the chin. At this gesture a black robed Master stepped into the ring and clapped his hands together sharply. "Enough," he called in a ringing voice, and the pale Hunter in training blinked and then started at the blade so close to his flesh. Then a red blush of shame burned on his cheeks and he hung his head while the Master clapped the other upon the shoulder in approval.

Amon turned to William in bewilderment and the emotion did not go unnoticed. "It was a fight between fire Craft and earth Craft," he explained patiently as the two stepped away from the ring of observers. The lesson was the use of Ogham wards in combat and how to avoid them. Apparently Avery did not manage to stay out of it."

"Avery is the fire user?" Amon asked.

William nodded. "He was fighting Olimay, who is a very good earth Craft user. I think I would have been surprised if Avery had managed to fight the ward."

Amon cursed his ignorance but swallowed his pride as he asked, "And what is an Ogham ward?"

William did not look askance at him as Amon feared he would. Instead he explained as though repeating a homework assignment. "Earth Craft users have the ability to manipulate one's perception of reality – to create an illusion that incapacitates the opponent." Amon nodded crisply, remembering his first hand experience with this devilry. "An Ogham ward is a circle cast by a Craft user to protect them against attack. However an earth Craft user can use this circle to encapsulate his opponent and make it seem as though the victim's Craft is being reflected back upon them, thus making them unwilling to fight. Then the earth user can simply walk up to the opponent and dispatch him, as you've seen." Amon shuddered inwardly at the memory of the dagger on the young man's throat, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Like a lamb to the slaughter…

* * *

And later, in his room and alone again at last, Amon could not quite shake the uneasy feeling that the duel had stirred in him. The unease gnawed at him and he absently acknowledged it. After all, he couldn't remember when he'd been without it to be honest, and its constant presence was almost a comfort in its reliability. And this place did nothing to lessen the low grade apprehension that shaded his waking and sleeping. He stood at the small window of his cell and watched wisps of cloud become translucent as they brushed past the moon.

The noise was far and almost unnoticeable at first, but the volume increased until it became recognizable. A helicopter was approaching the island, and landing on it from the sound of the propellers. Amon could see nothing of this from his window and so he focused all his attention to listening. The engine noise did not cut out; it only decelerated for several minutes before revving up again and lifting out into the starry night. The nighttime noises of the island's wildlife slowly filtered back in the absence of the droning engine, but Amon paid it no heed.

The knock on the door was unexpected, however, and Amon startled from his deep consideration. He opened the door to reveal Father Peter standing expectantly in the hall. "I'm here to summon you," he stated hurriedly. "Your Master has arrived."


	10. Darkness and Light

**Chapter 10: Darkness and Light**

The room was windowless – so as not to distract her, they thought. It was true, she needed no further distraction than the countless minds constantly pushing into her consciousness like a radio station that overlaps its signal with another. Trying to differentiate them was hard enough, but keeping them out entirely was proving impossible. Any person within her sight was an open book for her to read, and those persons out of immediate range simply let their presence be known with a feeling like a forgotten word on the tip of the tongue.

She could feel him, even at a distance. She could sense his frustration and tight control, control that was trembling, every day chipping away like paint flaking from a rusty gate. Sooner or later the weakened steel of his resolve would receive a pressure that would crack it. Yes, and she knew when. And Morgan knew her name.

It's not that she sought him – on the contrary, she fought to keep her mind free of his chilly ponderings. But he was always like a light in her peripheral vision, and besides, the dark Hunter was on the mind of many of the persons around her. Adrian considered him quite a lot. Father Peter did as well. Even the attendant who brought her meals had a picture of him in her mind. This thought made Morgan's lips twitch in the failed beginning of a smile.

The attempted smile quickly faded and her features contracted in an expression of discomfort. Someone nearby was very unhappy, and their thoughts were embarrassed and resentful. Morgan flinched and shook her slightly as though the motion would clear it. Laughter echoed in the back recesses of her brain, laughter of a young girl whispering to her friend during lessons. A person passing in the hall was considering what would be on the menu for dinner.

_God, I can't take this_, Morgan pleaded for the thousandth time as she squeezed her eyes closed. _I don't want these people in my head_. Earlier they had hooked her up to a machine to measure her brain activity, and she hadn't needed to read their thoughts to interpret their scowls. Their results showed the presence of her brain waves along with ghost lines that represented all the other people on this island tuning in and out at random.

She had paced the floor in the hopes of outrunning the mental interference, but now she was tired body and soul. She sat crumbled in a chair staring blankly into the eyes of Father Peter who sat nearby to better study her. His thoughts seemed to be running a tag team match between herself and the young man who had arrived with her. He was at a loss for what to do with either of them, but at least someone was coming who would take Amon in hand. Morgan raised her hand and absently dabbed the balled up handkerchief against the base of her nose to catch the thick drip of blood gathering at her nostril. Yes, someone was coming to be a Master to Amon, and that person was familiar to Morgan. She could not keep a shudder from snaking up her spine. If Amon was cold, this man was glacial. Amon killed because he had to, or because he was told to. The Master on the other hand killed because he liked it. And his eyes, his unholy red eyes… Morgan dabbed at her nose again and sighed. "I hope Juliano knows what he's doing," she said softly without meeting the gaze of her observer.

Father Peter smiled quizzically. "What do you mean?"

She waved the bloodstained hankie at him absently. "Never mind. You're needed upstairs; Master Aisling is going to tell you that Amon's teacher is coming."

Peter's smile became cold and brittle, as though to move his features would shatter his face. "What?"

And then a knock sounded on the door. She didn't need to look in his eyes to see the fear of her there. She already knew.

* * *

Amon followed Father Peter as he led him down darkened hallways, ending outside the door of a small study on the first floor. Voices could be heard within, and Father Peter hesitated. "…in the middle of a Hunt no less," came a haughty male voice from inside the room. There was a pause after Peter's knocking, followed by an exasperated "Enter."

Peter opened the door to reveal two men standing before the fireplace. There was an attendant hovering anxiously over a purple clad man standing before the fire, and Amon sized him up as he entered the room. The man was strangely dressed in a velvet suit that seemed to be from another century, and his dark brown hair curled past his shoulders. The attendant was holding a wide brimmed hat of the same gauche purple velvet, and as the man turned to fix Amon in his gaze he noticed the unusual red hue of his smoldering eyes. The look he gave Amon was brimming with low grade hostility, and Amon felt his own suppressed frustration flaring. The two men glared at each other, and Peter cleared his throat as he looked between them.

"Uh, well. Amon, I would like to present Sastre, one of the most talented Air Craft Masters to come from the program since its inception."

Sastre's frown deepened as he turned his crimson eyes on Peter. This flustered the young Master and he quickly corrected himself. "I mean the best, naturally." Sastre allowed the pause to stretch before nodding slightly. Peter directed his next statement to the glowering Amon. "Juliano insisted that only Sastre train you to the Craft the two of you share," he explained hurriedly.

The pencil thin mustache perched on Sastre's lip twitched slightly as he pursed his mouth. "Yes, Juliano knows my worth," the foppishly dressed Master replied, "though he called me off a mission to come. But," he closed his unsettling eyes and Amon idly noted the long girlish eyelashes, "when the premier Master calls, one must run to heel, mustn't one?" He sat in a chair before the fire with a flourish of his tailed coat, leaving Amon standing.

Amon had never met or seen the infamous Sastre before this moment, but his reputation had certainly preceded him. Stories were rampant of his flair for the dramatic, tales that Amon now found to be spot on if he could judge by the man's choice in clothes. But rumors also abounded of the man's extraordinary power and his ruthless efficiency in a Hunt. No person set in Sastre's path had lived to tell of it. Bells and whistles aside, this man was a Master Hunter in the truest sense of the term, and this fact was confirmed in the glowing coals of his eyes. They were the eyes of a serpent made human, or so Amon found himself thinking; deliberate, dangerous, deadly.

"When do we begin my training?" Amon asked in what he hoped was a respectful tone.

Sastre flipped his hand as though brushing away a fly. "Tomorrow at dawn, meet me on the beach and we'll see what you're made of."

With a curt nod, Amon pivoted smartly and exited the room. As he closed the door behind him he heard Sastre say, "At least he _looks_ like a Hunter, but I wonder…" Amon stiffened his spine with the implied insult that had been intentionally overheard, and strode purposefully back to his room. He couldn't guess what was coming in the morning, but he was going to be ready for it.

* * *

The sky was still drab with the lingering of night when William fetched Amon the next morning. The wake-up call was hardly necessary – Amon had been awake and dressed since the first hint of the new day and had sat meditatively upon his hard narrow bed, steadying his mind for the interaction ahead.

William led him out of the valley and back toward the island's edge, stopping on a stony patch of beach that snuggled against stark cliffs. During high tide the forlorn bit of coast would be completely submerged, letting the greedy ocean lap away at the rock face. Sastre was already present and was sitting on a larger boulder staring out to sea. He did not turn to acknowledge the arrival of his apprentice and the guide, merely making a faint shooing gesture with one long fingered hand. William nodded hurriedly to Amon and quickly retreated back up the path leading back to the valley and villa.

The cold and erratic ocean breeze was playing havoc with Amon's long black hair, and he resisted the urge to push it aside, choosing stillness instead while waiting to see what his new 'teacher' would do. There they stayed for some time, Amon glaring silently at Sastre, Sastre gazing unconcerned over the ocean which remained heavy and leaden without the light of dawn to yet spark its life and color. Amon was just about to conclude Sastre had no intention of addressing him at all when the Master Hunter broke the silence and did just that.

"I hear you're a real piece of work," he cast over his shoulder without looking on the recipient.

Glad of the break in the stalemate, Amon chose to recklessly reply. "I hear the same of you."

Rather than anger him, the remark seemed to amuse Sastre and he smiled sardonically to the sea. "Stubborn, arrogant, overconfident. You are all of these things." He glanced at Amon from the corner of his eye as though daring the dark man to repeat his previous statement. Amon held his tongue with difficulty, making sure no sign showed of the effort it cost him.

"In fact I think that your refusal to use your Craft before now is a sign of ignorant willfulness that merely masks cowardice."

Amon took a deep breath, trying to remove himself from the surge of anger this statement stoked in him. For all he knew Sastre was trying to make him slip up, to bait him into doing something stupid. For now Amon would have to swallow his pride and put up with this self important, purple wearing pansy. A time would come when the charge could be answered.

Sastre rose from his rock and turned to face his student at last. "I want to be your teacher about as much as you want to have one, I think," he declared in a tone of honest disinterest with a shrug of his velvet clad shoulders. "So let's settle this now." The look he leveled on Amon now was the same smoldering glare that he had used at last night's meeting. "Fight me now. If you win, if I claim defeat, then you can walk off this island and go to the devil for all I care. If not…" He let the pause hang in the air. "If you admit defeat then we proceed with your training."

Amon felt like he was standing in the path of a tank with nothing but a plastic water pistol, but the word cowardice hung heavy in the air and he was not about to back down. Instead he squared his shoulders. "I'm not in the habit of admitting defeat."

Sastre's thin mouth twisted into another sardonic smile. "Well I'd love to play for blood, but if I kill you Juliano would have my head."

"And what makes you think _you'd_ kill _me_?"

This produced a burst of laughter from Sastre. "You really are an arrogant son of a bitch," he chuckled appreciatively. "Let's see if your bite's as bad as your bark, eh?" And he fastidiously flicked his coat aside to once again sit on the jagged rock.

At first this maneuver bewildered Amon. Sastre had just asked him to attack, hadn't he? So why the hell was he sitting? And then it occurred to him – it was a sign of Sastre's confidence in Amon's harmlessness. The anger whistled inside his head like a kettle but he kept his icy veneer. To rush him head-on was a tempting prospect, the thought of Sastre face down eating sand was highly satisfactory - but Amon knew it would be ineffective. He had no gun, no weapon of any kind. Well, he had his Craft, but Amon supremely doubted his ability to call upon it at will, let alone aim with any precision.

There had to be a way, he didn't at all relish the thought of conceding to this self satisfied prick. But as he stared Sastre down a critical detail appeared to him, one that burst the bubble of his hopes for success. The wind off the ocean was erratically tossing Amon's hair and flapping his long black coat, but not Sastre's. He sat serenely on his perch in complete stillness as though captured in a picture.

Amon's only weapon was Air, and Sastre controlled that utterly. He was apparently sheltering behind a shield constructed of invisible oxygen, and Amon had the sneaking suspicion that nothing he could do right this moment could get through it.

He took a shaky breath past the anger hot in his throat. This was what Sastre wished him to learn from this encounter – his first lesson. As of this moment Amon had no way of beating him, hurting him, or even touching him. Any attempt to try would be foolish and pathetic. And so Amon stood with arms at his sides and lead in his chest, unable to force the concession out of his throat. He itched to turn on his heel and walk away. Nothing seemed worse at this moment than allowing this man to feel superior to him, let alone admitting it.

Sastre, in a rare moment of compassion, saved him from the situation. "Well you're not stupid," he said wryly. "Congratulations." He stood and faced his new apprentice. "Shall we begin?"

"Answer me something first," Amon replied. "Why are Peter and William afraid of you? And why would Juliano only allow me to be instructed by you?"

Sastre looked at the sand beneath his feet as though pondering. "Have you heard of Blake?"

"Blake?" Amon repeated. Yes, he knew who Blake was. An Air Craft user as well, Blake was rumored to be one of the most powerful Solomon Hunters since the time of the Inquisition. That is, until his power consumed him and he went mad. He had been killed years ago, before Amon had even been recruited to the STNJ. "Yeah, I've heard of him."

"He was my Master," Sastre said quietly. Then his crimson eyes looked up from under his brows. "And I'm the one that Hunted him."

His dangerous new instructor let this information sink in before taking a step forward. "Let's begin with blocking, shall we?"

* * *

Two days later Amon dragged his weary feet down the hallway toward his room. Every joint and muscle complained of the effort and it took conscious concentration to keep a grimace off his face. The 'blocking lesson' of the first day had consisted of Sastre attacking him again and again with the Air Craft until Amon could learn to call up and keep his guarding wall of air. It was a cruel way to teach - something akin to being kicked again and again until you learn the counterattack or fall down maimed – but Sastre was a cruel man so the approach suited him well. The following day's lesson had been a revisiting of the blocking technique followed by the beginnings of focusing air to attack. Somehow this lesson too involved Amon taking a physical beating, though he hadn't seen the point of it other than Sastre's sick amusement. Perhaps the Master hoped to compel Amon into such a rage that his Craft would focus. Or maybe he just liked picking on Amon. Either way it was proving to be a test in his self control.

He reached the bottom of the stairs before remembering the book Sastre had instructed him to take from the first floor library and he turned with a sigh and retraced his steps back to the grand foyer and then down another hallway. Inside the huge room it was quiet as a large collection of books tends to be housed. Three students dressed in the dove grey of first apprentices sat collected around a table with their faces peering closely over a book that looked to come from the time of Christ. Another person was sitting in a large leather chair before the large windows of the far wall, but the light from outdoors obscured Amon's view of them.

He recalled the name of the volume he was searching for and shuffled off into the stacks. It took longer to find than he would have wanted, but then, anything keeping him from a hot shower was time ill spent. The book was in his hand, a dusty old tome whose reading promised to be as dry as its pages, and Amon was turning toward the door when the strangest thing happened. A familiar voice spoke quite clearly in his head. _Please don't leave without saying hello, Houdini._ Amon stopped dead and turned around as though expecting to find her standing right behind him. She was not, nor was anyone else.

_You're cold, _Morgan's voice taunted as Amon turned slowly in a circle. _Warmer_, came the hint as he walked hesitantly toward the windowed wall. _Warmer_. Past the table with the students who were surreptitiously studying him. _Hot_. He saw the person curled up in the large leather chair and approached confidently, stopping before her and looking down into the bemused but haunted eyes of Morgan Excelior. Her smile was hesitant as though avoiding pain as she indicated a nearby chair. "Won't you join me?"

Amon sat as instructed and studied her a long moment. She was alone, something he hadn't expected, and she was tucked up into the chair almost in a fetal position. Several books were stacked on the floor, and one volume was closed over her finger to keep place. In the other hand was a balled up handkerchief. Her face was pale and drawn with the look of a person who is exceptionally unwell, and her eyes were guarded. He swallowed hard. "I'm glad to see you," he said in a near whisper. "I was wondering how you were."

She nodded and the hesitant smile made a brief reappearance. "I know I look bad, Amon, you don't have to pretend."

"I didn't say… I mean I didn't…"

"It's okay Amon. Sorry. I'm glad to see you too." Her eyes moved past his face and into the large library at his back. "In fact I was hoping to bump into you here."

Amon turned and looked behind him to see what she was looking at, but there was nothing extraordinary there. When he turned back Morgan was studying his face intently. "You wanted to see me?"

She nodded. "A longing for a familiar face that isn't full of concern like Adrian's is." She shifted in her plush seat so that she could sit facing Amon more fully. "And to see how you and Sastre are getting along."

Amon frowned at the mention of his Master trainer. "You heard he is teaching me?"

Morgan shrugged a thin shoulder. "I suppose you could say that. And I wanted to tell you something about him." She dog-eared the page she had been saving in her book and rested it on the arm of her chair. "He makes you angry, I know. He wants you to be, but not for any purpose that serves you." The look Amon gave must have reflected his puzzlement and Morgan continued. "It's not important how I know, but it's important that you set your feeling aside."

"What are you talking about?" Amon questioned softly, leaning closer.

She too moved forward in her chair, as though revealing confidences. "Sastre is who he is. You anger isn't about him; it's about your Craft, a curse that you don't want. It blocks and conflicts you."

The words struck Amon like a physical blow and he frowned. She noticed the reaction. "If you lose the anger then the channel will open and your focus will harness the power of your Craft. You alone stand in the way of this happening. Stop fighting your nature and start fighting _him_, a turn of events that will take him by surprise and allow you to excel."

"You make it sound so easy," Amon replied bitterly, noticing that his hands were wrapped with white knuckles around the book he still held.

Morgan shook her head softly. "I know it's not, Amon, not for you. To accept your power seems to be a surrender to darkness. And to some, like Sastre, it is just that." Morgan sat back in her seat and her eyes seemed to glaze and lose focus somewhat. "But what is darkness without light? Everything has its opposite. And night cannot come without the light of day."

As Amon looked upon her he noticed a thin ribbon of blood oozing from her nose, and the sight of it tightened a knot of concern in his stomach. "Morgan," he cautioned, raising a hand as though to stop her.

It went unheeded. She seemed not to see him at all as she continued to speak. "There is the eternal darkness, but there is the darkness that follows the light." Her eyes refocused on him. "You have a choice, Amon. It's not as hopeless as you fear."

Suddenly there was a disturbance behind him within the library and he turned to see Father Peter approaching rapidly with an attendant in tow. They made a beeline through the room toward Amon and Morgan, and when he turned he saw Morgan dabbing the blood away with her handkerchief which seemed liberally spotted with more of the same. Somehow the sight unnerved Amon even more. "Morgan, are you okay? What is going on?"

She looked utterly drained and resigned as she watched Peter approach, almost cringing deeper into her chair. Peter stood accusingly between herself and Amon. "So there you are," he scolded, and it took Amon a moment to realize he was referring to Morgan.

She looked innocently up at her accuser. "I felt like reading," she explained calmly, as though the single statement would explain all.

Apparently it did not. Peter was glowering. "You are not to leave your room without supervision," he reprimanded. "It's for your own well being." He turned his frown toward Amon. "Did you help her do this?"

Amon stared agape at the Master, and Morgan answered for him. "He happened to see me and came to say hello." She looked to Amon. "It was good to see you, but I think I have to go back to my room now."

"Indeed you do," Peter confirmed, taking hold of her thin arm and helping her to her feet. Amon rose as well. "Let's go now."

She did not protest to Peter's forceful assistance, but broke away to everyone's surprise and threw herself into Amon's astonished arms. She wrapped her arms around him, slipping the book she held into one of his hands as she did. Her mouth was close to his ear as she breathed, "You can be the dark that follows the light, Amon." And as quickly as she was there, the next moment she was not. The attendant disentangled her from Amon, who in his surprise had not even returned the embrace, and she was escorted from the room with Peter on one side and the attendant on the other.

Amon stood rooted to the spot, uncertain what all had just occurred. The three apprentices at the table were unabashedly staring now, and he quickly found his wits and left the library, climbing the stairs to his room, his aching muscles momentarily forgotten. In the quiet and privacy of his room he let slip the pretense of calm control and sat upon the bed with unabashed bewilderment. The words of their conversation played in his mind, though the entire exchange had seemed cryptic. Her assessment of his anger cut to the quick, and he turned the words over and over in his mind. _Stop fighting your nature and start fighting him._ Sage advice, given as how Sastre seemed hell bent on bludgeoning him to death with his own Craft.

But then he remembered the impetuous embrace she had departed with and shook his head slowly. Morgan was not one to engage in spontaneous acts of affection. No, she had done it as subterfuge in order to impart her final words. _You can be the dark that follows the light._ What did it mean?

And then he looked down and noticed the books still in his hands, utterly forgotten. One was the homework assignment set upon him by Sastre. The other she had slipped into his hand as she hugged him. It was the book she had been reading when he approached her, and he flipped it open. It was a collection of poetry. Had she intended to give this to him – a book of poems? Frowning, he turned to the page whose corner she had turned down, presumably to keep her place. Now he flipped to it and smoothed the paper, reading the poem, and then re-reading it more slowly. A strange sixth sense prickled down his spine and raised the hair on his arms as he read.

_Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow;_

_Though thou be black as night,_

_And she made all of light,_

_Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow._

_Follow her whose light thy light depriveth;_

_Though here thou liv'st disgraced,_

_And she in heaven is placed,_

_Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!_

_Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,_

_That so have scorched thee,_

_As thou still black must be,_

_Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth._

_Follow her while yet her glory shineth;_

_There comes a luckless night,_

_That will dim all her light;_

_And this the black unhappy shade divineth._

_Follow still since so thy fates ordained;_

_The sun must have her shade,_

_Till both at once do fade;_

_The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained._

* * *

_Author's note: The poem is _'Devotion' _by Thomas Campion. Thank you all for your patience, as the holidays and a little bout of writer's block have kept me from posting as soon as I would have liked. I hope people are still reading this story! Thank you if you are, and please review! Happy Holidays!_


	11. Master of the Craft, Part I

_Author's Note: It lives! For those of you who thought this story might be dead, I apologize for the extreme delay. Sometimes life just gets in the way, you know? But it's back now, and I vow that this story will be FINISHED! Someday…(I have no idea how many more chapters there are left, I just write the story.) In the mean time, I present the next installment. A huge thank you to all who have reviewed, especially the few who kept poking at me to keep writing. I appreciate the praise and encouragement, and I hope you enjoy the continuation._

**Chapter 11: Master of the Craft, Part I**

The line was a secure one, both parties had made sure of it, and yet the female's voice seemed subdued, hushed, and a little hurried as though afraid of being caught in the act.

"Do you have confirmation?" the male voice asked.

"Affirmative," came the reply in the same secretive tones. "She is alive."

There was a pause. "You are sure?"

"Yes. I've spoken with her personally." The woman cringed inwardly as she said it, knowing what her superior would say.

"Yet you do not know where she is hiding?"

"No sir, I've not been able to ascertain that yet."

"It is imperative that you do so immediately. Your next objective, then, is to do just that. Find her. Understood?"

The young woman swallowed, licked her lips, and found a voice for the words sticking in her throat. "Sir, is this an official Hunt order?"

"No," came the reply. "And it may not come to that. For now we need to discover where she is and if she will allow contact." A pause. "So find her."

"Yes sir," she confirmed. "I also have a status on the other target."

"Proceed."

"He has cut off contact with the STNJ Hunters, though not with the administration. He is working out of the Factory, and has been since the attack. Surveillance shows no unusual activity."

"Who is handling the Hunts?"

"The most senior Hunter at present is Karasuma Miho and she is organizing and performing the Hunts. The office is under the supervision of Kosaka, Tokyo Police."

"Very well," the male voice replied. "Continue observation of the Factory and monitor Zaizen's movements. We'll monitor Tokyo police channels from here. Priority one is Sena."

"Understood," she replied before disconnecting, snapping the cell phone closed and holding it tightly in her fist, her other hand gripping the steering wheel of her car. She was uncertain how to react to the exchange – on the one hand she had not been ordered to Hunt Robin, merely to find her. However, finding her meant her superior was one step closer to that end if he chose to exercise that power. And no matter how she spun it, she could not avoid her complicity in Robin's Hunt if it came to it.

She would do as she was ordered. She had no choice. And yet, after the attack of the STNJ she had fervently hoped that the young fire witch would have the common sense to find a dark hole to hide in a stay there.

Doujima started her car and pulled out of the small niche she had chosen as a surveillance post near the factory, a frown furrowing the brow beneath her light blonde bangs. She was going to look for Robin, yet she secretly hoped she wouldn't find her.

* * *

Juliano's thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of ice cubes in his guest's now empty glass. He reached for the heavy crystal decanter on the table between them and Inquisitor Koushon extended his glass for the refill, nodding his thanks. He took a sip of the fine scotch and grimaced ever so slightly. "Your hospitality is admirable, Father, considering the recent animosity between us."

Father Juliano looked hard at the Inquisitor, squashing the smug smile on his face. "You did not come here so that we could catch up on old times. This is no social call."

"Ah, but old times may end up being just what we discuss, Father."

Juliano schooled his expression to cool neutrality. "Perhaps." He took a sip from his own glass, quelling the shiver scotch always gave him. "May I inquire after your agent, Grieg?"

Koushon inclined his head. "You may. Ivan is recovering. The road is long, but he will overcome." Then he looked to Juliano, cold blue eyes staring out of an equally cold face. "And may I enquire about Agent Excelior?"

A ripple of unease passed through Juliano, though he carefully suppressed it. Morgan excited in him a concern that had long passed casual. The reports he was receiving from the island were not favorable where she was concerned. Rather than schooling her new power, she seemed utterly at its mercy. And the power, so Adrian reported to him, seemed only to be gathering in strength. And she was being fairly uncooperative besides. "She is recovered," he lied calmly to his unwelcome guest. "She is with Father Adrian, as always."

Koushon smiled unconvincingly. "Of course."

The two men sat back in matching leather wingback armchairs before the large fireplace in Juliano's comfortable private study, firelight casting the two men in a circle of warm light that died just several feet beyond their chairs. Inquisitor Koushon spoke again, this time in tones barely above a whisper. "And Amon?"

Juliano studied his adversary carefully. At the speaking of the young Hunter's name the Inquisitor had lost all his swagger, turning instead to a seriousness that told just how worried Koushon was about the implications of Amon's cooperation with his rival. "And is that why you have come?" Juliano asked carefully. "Do you still desire his knowledge? Do you still make designs against him?"

Koushon sat back in his chair, studying the play of light on the cut crystal of the glass in his hand. "No, that is not my reason for wanting a meeting with you. Curiosity is all I harbor where he is concerned."

Juliano highly doubted it, but allowed Koushon to segue without argument. "And your reason then for calling me is what?"

"Unfinished business," was the cryptic reply.

"I agree there is much left unresolved between us. So much in fact that I must ask to what you are referring to specifically."

Inquisitor Koushon was still turning his glass slowly. "My agents tell me that you have not made good on your word, Juliano, as to your young Hunter in Japan." He hadn't said her name, but both men understood the person in question. "I hear there has been no search, no Hunt ordered. Nothing at all."

The stillness of Juliano belied the fear and rage he felt at that moment. "I hardly see how this concerns you, Koushon."

The Inquisitor sat forward in a sudden movement. "And I am here to discover how you can be so very unconcerned about it."

"And I remember telling you in no uncertain terms that my Hunters are my business and mine alone. You are meddling in matters that don't concern you, so I must assume that you are trying to play the same card as before in order to force my hand. And I told you then that the information Zaizen has promised you does not exist."

Koushon scowled. "Zaizen plays no part in my reason for being here. I speak of another matter."

Juliano took a measured breath around the tightening in his chest. "Enlighten me, then."

There was a pause as though Koushon was considering how to phrase his next words. "I speak of Robin's mission, and the very real danger she is in."

For a moment Juliano was without words. "Continue."

"I have discovered Robin's reason for being in Japan. Not as a replacement Hunter as was supposed. That was for Zaizen's benefit I'm sure. I refer to the Arcanum."

"I'm not going to ask how you came by this information."

"A wise move, Father." Koushon smiled. "My methods for gathering intelligence are what have allowed me to reach my current position. But I take it, then, that it is correct?"

Juliano was wildly uncertain where this track was headed, knowing only that the destination was not somewhere he wanted to go with this man. "Why don't you say what you have come to say, Koushon?"

"Because my information comes with a price." He sat back and clasped his hands demurely.

Of course. This snake of a man was capable of nothing less. To deal with him was to make concessions he had no desire to make. And to give this man more information than he already had was dangerous. But if it concerned Robin… the ache in his chest now felt more like familiar despair now. The thought of his granddaughter weighed very heavy on his mind and heart. "I can't imagine," Juliano said softly, "how you think I would negotiate with you after what has happened. I have every reason to believe you are trying to orchestrate my downfall."

"Of course you're right," Koushon conceded benignly. "You distrust me. So how about I give you a little information for free? As a sign of good faith?" His look was mocking, challenging, and Juliano's temper rose just as Koushon intended it to. Without waiting for an answer, he rose and strode to the fire, turning his back to the Master Hunter. "My informants tell me that there is a situation developing in Japan. In the Walled City region to be specific."

Juliano knew to what Koushon referred. Strange reports were leaking from that area that a fight had begun in the power vacuum left by the death of a woman whom many believed to be the leader of the witches in that area. He said as much to Koushon, who nodded. "That is correct. In fact, a migration has begun throughout Japan to the Walled City by witches on the Solomon watch list. And witches are fighting there. And dying there. And do you know why?"

When Juliano made neither sound or gesture, Koushon continued. "For an object. An object that is said to bestow extraordinary knowledge and power on the owner." The inquisitor turned to look at his audience. "The Fragment of Wisdom. The Arcanum of the Craft."

Juliano sat back in his chair. "I already have this information," he said smoothly. "If this is what you are here to tell me then you are wasting your time."

"Let me continue," Koushon said with a silencing gesture. "Witches are searching for it and fighting for it, but no one can find it." A pause. "But I know who has it."

"And this is the information?"

Koushon smiled slowly. "Oh yes."

Juliano bristled. "And why would that concern me?"

"Because you know her too." He allowed this information to sink in, watching Juliano's face morph from anger to uncertainty to trepidation. "Yes," he confirmed. "Robin has the Arcanum."

This brought Juliano forward in his chair. "And how do you know this?"

"You forget, when I was last in Japan I questioned Robin personally."

"And you're telling me she told you she had it?"

"No, but I saw it."

"She showed it to you?"

Koushon smiled again, a terrible, cold smile, and Juliano felt suddenly his blood chill. "In a manner of speaking."

Juliano was on his feet without recalling making the decision. "Explain yourself," he growled, stepping toward Koushon.

The Inquisitor raised a hand to halt his progress. "First, we discuss my price." Juliano's face must have shown the outraged anger he felt, which only made his abuser smile more. "In exchange for this information you destroy any designs you have on bringing my recent actions before the High Council. And you will give me any and all information you have concerning Zaizen and the orbo so that my department may act to bring him down."

Juliano realized his hands were clenched into fists and he relaxed them slowly, swallowing the insults he longed to hurl at this hateful man. Making a deal with this devil was disgusting. He would be letting him off the hook for the underhanded, dangerous, and potentially disastrous plans he had tried to execute. But Robin was worth any price, however hard to swallow. "Done." He stepped uncomfortably close to the Inquisitor, allowing his greater height to intimidate. "Now tell me what you know."

Koushon, surprisingly, did not step away. "Gladly," he replied. "Your mistake, Juliano, is that you've been laboring under the illusion all this time that the Arcanum was an object to be possessed. Not that you can be blamed for this misunderstanding – everyone else assumes likewise. But I am telling you, the Arcanum is not a thing, it is a power bestowed on a person. A Craft in itself, if you will, and a custodianship of ancient wisdom recorded nowhere else."

"And you are saying that Robin has been bestowed with this power?" Juliano whispered. His heart was racing, his vision loosing focus as he began to digest the magnitude of what Koushon was telling him and the implications only he understood.

"Yes, when she destroyed Methuselah the Arcanum in her possession was passed to Robin," he confirmed. "I've seen it with my own eyes. She is powerful, Juliano. Immensely powerful. Beyond reckoning, in fact." To Juliano's astonishment, Koushon moved in even closer and caught his arm. "Horrifyingly powerful, and now she is missing."

"Since your attack on the STNJ there has been no contact. She might be dead." Several moments ago the idea of Robin being dead would have been heartbreaking. How grotesque that now in the back of Juliano's mind, under these new terrifying circumstances he actually longed for it. He felt the bile rising in his throat.

"She's not," Koushon countered, driving the imaginary knife in deeper. "My agent has made contact with her. She is alive and unharmed. And in hiding."

* * *

"Find me, if you can."

These were the only instructions Sastre had given him, yet Amon needed no others. The lesson of the day was to track the target and engage in combat. And while the island stretched on for ten square miles of largely inhospitable ground, Amon nearly smiled with relief. Hunting in the open was something he was good at. He set off at sunrise from the manor with unhurried pace, hands in pockets, breathing in the fresh ocean air filtered through the sturdy if stunted Holm oaks that sheltered in the central valley of the island.

Once outside the manicured lawns of the monastery, Amon slowed his steps even further and began to look to the ground. His prejudiced opinion of Sastre's hiking skills led Amon to believe that he would keep to a path, however insignificant it may be. But he knew his Master would think of this, and would delight at making the ordeal as arduous as possible. So Amon looked for any sign from bent grass blade to disrupted shrub to scuff mark in the dirt to guide him after the Master Craft user.

Several yards away and to the left there was a defined boot print in the looser dirt off the well worn path and it pointed off into the shoulder high scrub that began its climb up the mountain at this point. A little probing showed similar prints ranging off after the first in the same direction. So carefully Amon parted the shrubs and placed his feet quietly, following the trail.

It was good to be alone for a change, with time for his own thoughts. If he tried hard enough he could imagine he was on a walk for pleasure rather than a Hunting exercise. His only solitary time was at night, alone in the confines of his room. But Amon no longer felt alone in those dark hours. Since his strange interaction that day in the library with Morgan, Amon had felt a presence forming, and his memories of her had been his constant companion ever since. Even now as he scanned the terrain with close scrutiny it was impossible for him to ignore that her eyes had looked upon this landscape as well; that her steps printed this island.

It wasn't that he was different. No, he couldn't say he had changed. And yet something had shifted in him, in his unconscious mind, in his soul, and the door had opened as though he had been able to all the while. She had brought this about; Morgan. That day in the library when she put the book in his hand and spoke those words in his ear, it gave him a course of action. It gave him a reason to fight. And though he wasn't ready to admit it even to himself, it gave him hope. Of what he wasn't sure exactly. But he read that poem until the light faded outside, then intermittently through the sleepless night that followed. And the more he read it the more her face coalesced in his mind. Robin. Pale and beautiful like an angel rendered by Botticelli with a soul of fire burning behind the limpid pools of her green eyes. That thin, seemingly fragile, seemingly childlike young woman was everywhere it seemed, as though the place had absorbed her essence and the air he breathed intoxicated him with her past inhabitance. The warm and silent presence he had become grudgingly addicted to was wracking him with shuddering withdrawal. He couldn't fight it any more. He wouldn't. The poem had spoken of light, and the only light Amon could imagine was hers – pure and white despite the darkness all around her. At least her memory was with him now, keeping him focused, allowing him to cup his fingers around the flame of his own humanity lest Solomon succeed in completely snuffing it out.

That next day with Sastre had been priceless in Amon's estimation. He had arrived to the lesson haggard looking from lack of sleep, though perhaps his eyes shone too brightly, probably misinterpreted as the first symptoms of insanity. Sastre looked smug, a cat licking cream from his whiskers as he took in his student's bruised eyes and pale skin, noted the stiffness and care Amon took as he walked – symptoms from the 'teaching' of the day before. _No threat here_, he must have thought, _no contest_. And the overconfidence slid into his quiet voice as he asked, "Did you study the book as I told you to do?"

"No."

The smirk took its time sliding from beneath Sastre's mustache, holding its place as though denying Amon's ability to have answered in anything other than the affirmative. When the truth set in, however, Sastre's eyes sparked crimson. "No?" he echoed, allowing the repetition to hold the vague weight of a threat.

Amon didn't even look up from behind the veil of his hair shielding both sides of his face. "No," he repeated simply, letting one hand rest lightly across his abdomen, over one of the scars he had incurred saving Robin's life. He pressed and felt the deep ache. He needed to remember if he wanted this to work. He had to remember.

"_If you lose the anger then the channel will open and your focus will harness the power of your Craft. You alone stand in the way of this happening. Stop fighting your nature and start fighting _him_, a turn of events that will take him by surprise and allow you to excel."_ Morgan's words to him the day before. The single spoken thought that had started this. He hoped he was strong enough.

Sastre had stood then, advancing slowly upon his belligerent student. "I'm afraid this lesson is going to hurt, then," almost spitting glee at the thought of a well justified thrashing. From the inside pocket of his coat he brought forth a recognizable book and flipped it open with one hand, standing casually in the middle of the large, empty room. "Let's read it now, together."

He cleared his throat dramatically and began. "We stand collected as stars in the sky, no order but yours, Lord." At this his eyes flicked up from the page and Amon felt a wave of energy heading his way. His first instinct was to clench his fists or hold his breath but instead he did the opposite, relaxing, breathing, and timing his response. The Craft flashed to a dead halt several feet from him, and Sastre cocked an eyebrow. "Hmm."

"One light may burn brighter than the next," he continued in his reading, "but all pale and disappear within the sun's light, light of the Lord." Again his eyes rose from the page, this time with a much larger surge of power behind it. Amon could sense, almost too late, that he was not ready to block such a large attack and he spun to the side, hearing the impact of Sastre's Craft reverberate on the cold stone wall behind him.

"Uh huh," Sastre intoned, flipping pages idly in his book, seemingly vindicated by Amon's reaction. Amon took another deep breath, letting his hand rest again on the scar, calling for stillness in his head, seeking to quell the antagonism this man so easily roused in him.

Sastre was reciting once more, and the two men began to circle each other slowly. "You must kill, without regret, all those who are outside our Lord's love, for surely to live beyond the touch of God's guiding hand is an abomination, cold and empty, and in the teeming void Satan will find his opportunity - "

His recitation was cut off as Amon's Craft lifted Sastre from his feet and threw him several yards back, landing ungracefully on his backside. In the calm Amon sought he had made the realization that Sastre had arrogantly neglected to guard himself, so sure was he that Amon would or could not attack. Now Sastre looked around him, anger and confusion vying for dominance. Anger won, and he scrambled back to his feet, leaving the book where it had fallen.

The circling began once more, but Amon felt light now, unencumbered by worry or fear. Suddenly the world seemed crisp and focused, and he felt in control of the power that welled within him, gathering at his command. He knew, however, that if he were to score another hit it would not be as easy the second time – Sastre was no fool and would not underestimate him twice. "This is your purpose," Sastre spat, now reciting the book from memorization. "to know the darkness that spawns temptation, to touch the power that breeds corruption, and eliminate such threats with the Lord's power." Amon knew another attack was coming, could feel it gathering, and yet he dropped his shield, sending instead a surge of energy to meet Sastre's head on. They met and collided with a clap like thunder, sending both men back several steps.

His Master's eyes were wide, looking at Amon as though for the first time. "How…" fell from his lips and died there.

Amon advanced slowly, every step gathering power. "Focus your will," Amon said softly but clearly, sending a burst that bounced off Sastre's shield. "Abandon your desire." Another attack, larger this time, leaving no room for Sastre to counter, only defend. "And become an instrument of God's justice." And he planted his feet, throwing both arms out before him, sending a surge of power forward. While it did not penetrate his Master's shield, it did push him back several steps, leaving him quite literally against the wall.

Sastre's mouth was open, either in shock or to catch his breath. "I thought you said you didn't read the book," he accused, pushing away from the wall.

Amon allowed a small smile to appear. "I lied."

The smile reappeared as Amon paused in his hike to rest and survey the surroundings. The trail was leading him in a serpentine path around and up the mountain. As he climbed he left the valley behind and views of the ocean came into view; startlingly blue water with equally blue skies, the hint of a storm passing on the horizon far to the south. Somewhere on the mountain above a fight was waiting for him, but he felt no need to rush toward it.

He could not think on that small victory over Sastre without thinking of a very similar victory he had witnessed just several months before. They had set up a trial for her in the caverns beneath Raven's Flat and watched from the safe perspective of a camera as Robin flawlessly executed her test. He could still see so clearly the transparent look of unhurried concentration on her face, and the relaxed confidence she exuded as she performed what seemed to be an impossible feat. He had been unnerved by her ability, a feeling that stirred no small measure of annoyance in him, and had marveled what a difference a pair of glasses could make to a power that had previously seemed sporadic and uncontrollable.

Yet now he frowned as a new thought occurred to him. His Craft too had been a wild and untamed beast before something as small as a poem and whispered conversation shifted his focus and concentration, allowing him to redirect his power into a useable channel. Perhaps… could it be possible that his small gesture of concern and belief in her abilities had allowed Robin to harness the full power of her Craft? He stared at the ground as he trudged over uneven rocks, mulling the thought. Well without a doubt Robin was extremely powerful. It was presumptuous to assume that a pair of glasses could succeed where the Solomon Master Hunter Program could not. This thought spawned another – to whom had Robin been apprenticed? While he was sure there were at least a handful of Fire Craft users at the rank of Master, none was higher than Juliano.

Juliano…Again the letter appeared in his mind, the letter Father Juliano had written to Robin before Koushon's team had Hunted her. He didn't have any idea where it was now, but the force of the words and the emotions behind them were fresh in his mind. For such an eloquent man the note had been fairly jumbled; sentences that swung wildly between apology and resignation, hints of a larger purpose to her sacrifice and yet raw, tearing grief at the thought of losing her. And love. Yes, it seemed Father Juliano had a surprising well of love for Robin. It was a mystery. Amon frowned and kept moving forward. Perhaps it was a mystery that needed solving.

The wind was whistling with more force here on the heights of the mountain, and he could almost feel the answering call of his Craft to the moving air. It was uniquely bizarre to have such a sense of space around him, to feel a mental contact with the air that surrounded him, knowing that now he could call upon it to be both sword and shield if the occasion demanded it. While he would never describe it to another as such, he had to admit that it made him feel a little more in touch with nature and made the vast expanse he looked out upon seem just a little smaller.

Amon shook his head of these worthless thoughts. He had to concentrate, now that he could see where his tracking was leading him. Father Peter had told him offhandedly at dinner one evening some of the history of the island, and the topic of the first monastery had come up. Peter had told Amon that the ruins of that structure still remained high up on a bluff, and now Amon looked upon them with his own eyes. An ominously beautiful gothic façade still remained standing, the rest crumbled to the foundations, and Amon knew this was where Sastre would be waiting for him. He approached stealthily, yet he could sense eyes watching him, and knew the strange sudden absence of breeze was no accident. Setting his jaw and summoning his shield, he climbed toward the ruins.

* * *

_The next chapter is being written and will be posted soon. Thank you for reading!_


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